The Black Hand
by K.C.Dragonfly
Summary: Past and present collide in this modern day mystery that harks back to a time when the Mafia owned Las Vegas. Three tales, three states, three murders ... and a CSI's life on the line for a crime that happened 46 years ago. Can the team figure out this complicated riddle before time runs out for Sara?
1. August 2nd 1958

**New job, new story :)**

**This is something I've wanted to do for a while, and I'm not sure it'll work out but there's only one way to find out! Basically, it's going to flash backwards and forwards in time, charting three different stories that all interlock in past and present. Some details are linked to canon plots, others are made up by myself. I will put headings in bold to explain where and when each bit is taking place, so hopefully it will make sense. If there's no heading, it's present tense (circa season 4).**

**Also, as I am learning Italian, there will be some Italian dialogue. I will put the English translation in [**_**italics**_**] next to it, to make things simpler to understand.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own CSI, the characters or the mafia. Obviously.**

* * *

><p>"Non abbiamo mai pianificato in questo modo." <em>[We never planned it that way]<em>

He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. In her binding chains, she could only turn her head away from the cloud of smoke that billowed over her. "Ma a volte in questo modo le carte cadono."_[But sometimes that's the way the cards fall]_

"Perche?" _[Why?] _She queried hoarsely, shifting her weight and wincing at the shot of pain that ran through her wrists at the meagre action. "Perche non si dice nulla?" _[Why didn't you say anything?]_

He emitted a dark chuckle and sat forwards, the smell of stale smoke and whiskey encircling her like a thick, impenetrable fog.

"Perche..." _[Because...]_ he answered cryptically, coughing out a sigh. "Perche non e come il gioco viene giocato." _[Because that's not how the game is played]_

* * *

><p><strong>August 2nd, 1958 - - The Sands Hotel and Casino; The Copa Room<strong>

The scent of sweat and perfume and sickly sweet alcohol sweeps around the room in dizzying musk.

Sammy Davis Junior has just left the stage into the throng of sharp-suited guys and sparkling dolls gathered at the bottom of the steps. Now, as the house lights dip and a gentle cheer meanders around the room, the stage is filled with the striking figure of Lois O'Neill in all her glory; flanked by the eternally beautiful Copa Girls.

The man sitting at Angelo's side was fixated on the girl to the far left of the stage – a stunning red-head by the name of Lily. She caught him staring and flashed a knowing grin, her perfectly coiffed curls bouncing off her glittering sequined shoulders.

"Ahem." Angelo coughed, dragging the man's attention back from the dancer. Sam turned languidly to face him, his blue eyes practically alight against his midnight black hair and lightly tanned face. "Can we start?"

His accent was thick and un-Americanised, not unlike most of his current company.

"Of course." Sam cleared his throat, seeking a glimpse of the man sat directly opposite him in the discreet booth. He had been silent since their arrival, stirring his drink rhythmically as he eyed his companions with unadulterated suspicion. Sam had no doubt that he had purposefully chosen the seat that was the most shrouded in shadow. Concealment – the first sign that a man was not to be trusted.

The fourth and final member of their little group, a tall Sicilian with striking features and a volatile temper to rival that of his reputation, had been observing them each in turn through narrowed almost-black eyes. Now, he sat forward and pushed his glass aside with the back of a bejewelled hand.

"Gentlemen." He began, his voice low and unexpectedly husky. "You all know what's going to happen soon. Momo is on a slippery slope – he's bringing in too much heat and Tony Accardo isn't going to stand for it too much longer."

"You know something that we don't?" Sam queried, taking a slow sip of his own drink. He had been sceptical when the man had summoned them all to this exclusive little meeting and that uncertainty had continued to plague him the longer they sat in brooding silence.

"What, do you want proof?" The man shot back sarcastically. "It's the business. It happened to Bugsy and Capone, it'll happen to Giancana. Soon."

"Okay." Angelo also leant forwards, folding his hands on the table and glancing around the room edgily. It wasn't that he was nervous, per se, but talking about well known mobsters in the open like this tended to set his teeth on edge; especially in light of current events in Cuba and the CIA's growing interest in the mafia's involvement. "What exactly does that have to do with us?"

"When Giancana bites it, it's going to leave quite the hole in the business." The man explained. "I'm proposing that we fill that hole."

"I'm not sure Accardo will go for that." Sam half-joked, his glass clinking off his rings as he passed it idly between his hands.

"Accardo won't get a say in it." The man hissed, as if that was obvious. "Because we're going to remove him from the equation."

"Whoa." Angelo nearly choked on his brandy. "You're not saying we take out Tony?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying." There was a cool evenness to his response that was deeply unsettling. He was cocky, confident; and for a man with such an unstable personality, that was rarely a precursor to success.

"What about Ricca?" The man in the shadows asked at last, his eyes remaining shielded by the protective shadow of the curtain hanging around their booth.

"You let me deal with Ricca." The man insisted with a dismissive flick of the wrist.

"I don't know about this." Angelo shifted. "I mean, I'm all for moving up in the business, but taking over the Outfit? That's some big bones we're messing with."

"He's right." Sam agreed. "Accardo's a good man. What makes you think you can do better?"

"I know I can do better." He snapped back insolently. "I've got plans for this town – big plans. Accardo, he's a Chicago man. He doesn't know this city the way I do – the way we do!"

"We've all got plans for this town." Sam interjected sternly. "But that doesn't give us or anyone else the right to mess with the system. You go after a mark as big as Accardo, you're only going to start a war."

"A war means the feds." Angelo pointed out. "And I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't want to see out my days on Alcatraz."

The man swung his gaze rapidly from one face to the other in sullen silence for an agonizingly long two minutes.

Then, without warning, he slammed his empty glass onto the table and rocked to his feet, glowering down at them all as if challenging them in turn to stand up and meet him at eye-level.

"Vivere per pentito di questo decisione." He spat in disgust when none of them moved. "I won't forget this."

A few people at nearby tables turned towards the outburst, but most carried on their celebrations regardless as he forced his wide frame out from behind the booth, snatching his hat from the edge of the table as he went, and tore through the dancers and the drinkers towards the little-known rear entrance behind the bar.

The music continued in the wake of his departure, bright and lively and distinctly American; in stark contrast to the mood at the table where three men now sat in contemplative muteness.

"Well." Shadow-man stated after the long silence became too much. He downed the last of his drink, stood up and addressed his comrades directly for the first time. "Gentlemen." He tipped his hat, which, unlike the others, had never left his head throughout the meeting. Then, after tossing a few notes onto the table - enough to cover his own drinks and then some - he stuffed his hands into his pockets and mooched towards the exit.

Angelo and Sam both watched in mutual awe as he cut an imposing figure, coursing through the crowd like a silhouette. Impressive and threatening, but easily forgotten, Nino Carmine was the perfect mobster.

They would sit there a few minutes more, sipping their drinks in silence, before following suit; Angelo first, slipping through the intoxicated revelers unnoticed and out into the warm summer night breeze. He would hail a cab and then think better of it and walk back to his hotel room in a vain attempt to clear the nagging concerns swirling around his alcohol-fuddled mind.

Sam would wait longer, until Lily Flynn had finished her shift. And then, like a gentlemen, he would escort her home, down the increasingly illuminated street of Las Vegas rapidly coming to be known as 'The Strip'.


	2. July 3rd 2004

**July 3rd, 2004 - - Downtown Las Vegas**

It was a thick, muggy heat; the kind that encircles you and clings to every inch of exposed skin.

He slammed the trunk shut and stepped out from the shade into the blazing morning sun, his kit a dull weight as it swung rhythmically against his leg with every weary step he took.

"Oh man." He groaned, rolling his achy shoulders beneath a heavy CSI vest. "Of all the days for a trash-run."

It had been a desperately long shift and he had yearned to leave the sticky summer heat behind for a couple of chilled beers in an air-conditioned sports bar somewhere off-strip.  
>He could almost taste the cooked breakfast waiting for him at the diner; where the pretty young blonde would be waiting too, with a pleasant smile and an extra rasher of bacon just for him.<p>

And then, to his eternal dismay, a pleading phone call from Grissom and a bad round of rock, paper scissors with Nick had hauled him away from the fantasy notion of making it home before noon and out here to the cesspit of downtown Las Vegas.

The uniformed officer standing guard looked equally pissed off at being summoned out here, but wisely kept his mouth shut and silently lifted the yellow crime scene tape for the criminologist to duck underneath.

Adjusting the camera strap slung over his shoulder, Warrick set off down the narrow alley. Commercial dumpsters – un-emptied for a fortnight thanks to the current city-wide waste-disposal strikes – spilled over into his path and he had to swat his way through a cloud of hyperactive flies buzzing and flitting hungrily over the plentiful source of food.

But trash wasn't all they were feasting on today.

The smell reached him long before the sight of the body did and he curled his nose up in disgust.

"Phew!" He whistled, crouching down beside the decimated corpse. "He's been here a while."

"Judging from the level of decomposition, I'd estimate at least a week." David Phillips agreed dejectedly, already harbouring deep resentment to Doc Robbins for dispatching him out on this one.

"A week in this heat." Warrick shook his head. "Damn."

The man in question was face up on the ground, partially concealed by a large graffiti-stained trash can and a stack of old pizza boxes that presumably belonged to the dodgy takeout place behind them. His once-black Armani suit was now grey with accumulated dust and grime; and lying discarded on his stomach was a point-38 pistol.

"Gun left on the body." The CSI noted with a hint of apprehension, wiping the rapidly collecting sweat off his forehead with the back of a gloved hand. He'd been in the scene five minutes and he already felt dirty. "I don't like where this is going."

"Well you're probably not going to like this, either."

David reached across to lift the sheet he had placed over the victim's face, revealing the apparent cause of death.

"Oh, man." Warrick recoiled. "That is a lot of bullet holes."

"We'll get the full count at autopsy." The assistant coroner assured him. "I don't see any bullet casings though."

"Killer probably took them with him. This reeks of a mob hit." Warrick sighed, swinging the camera off his shoulder to photograph the still-oozing wounds where the man's face used to be.

"This just reeks." He heard the disgruntled mutter from the cop at the end of the alley, but chose to ignore it and gestured again towards the body.

"You, uh, check his pockets yet, Super Dave?"

"Not yet." David took the question as an invitation to delve into the suit jacket and extracted what was once a rather expensive leather wallet, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger.

"Thanks," Warrick smirked sarcastically as he accepted the greasy offering and carefully peeled it open.

The image that met him was instantly recognisable – unlike the unfortunate remains currently sprawled before him.

"Whoa." He gasped, feeling instantly better about landing this case. "Nino Carmine."

"You know him?" David asked, softening his voice in pre-emptive sympathy.

"Know him?" Warrick scoffed. "I grew up listening to stories about this guy. He's a big time mobster from way back in the day."

"Oh." Dave nodded, giving the deceased a once-over. He may have been a big shot in his time, but right now he was just one step up from human soup. "Well, maybe he got _too_ big time for somebody's liking."

"Yeah." Rick drawled, seeking out the empty holes where Nino's midnight black eyes had once sent grown men cowering with a solitary glance. Now, those cold orbs were nothing more than a sunken abyss in the centre of a shattered reflection. "Or he knew something he shouldn't, and someone wanted to send a message."

* * *

><p><strong>July 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room<strong>

"Shot eight times through the mouth and the neck." Warrick tossed the coroner's report onto the table, where it slithered to an elegant halt in front of the woman. "I _know_ you know what that means."

"Somebody was trying to make sure he couldn't talk." Catherine nodded slowly, pursing her lips. "Mob hit?"

"No doubt." He agreed, ambling around the layout room table.

He had painted the wall with crime scene images and various handwritten notes about the victim, and Nino's stern expression now stared down at them from the centre of the bloody mural, his hollow gaze seeming to pierce straight through anybody who dared meet it.

"Nino Carmine worked for Tony Constantine way back in the day. He was connected to everybody who was anybody – including Sam." Warrick shot a sly glance in Catherine's direction before continuing. "There's been rumours for years that he was the one who shot Joey Acerbi In Times Square on New Year's Eve, 1958."

"Forget rumours." Cath instructed bluntly, electing to gloss over her father's potential involvement for the time being. "Do we know who killed him?"

"Oh, forget about it." He scoffed, tapping the wall with his knuckle. "A guy like this, half the mafia could be behind it."

"Oh." Cath echoed resignedly, picking up the folder and turning to the first page. Nino Carmine had once been an attractive, if not particularly striking, young man. But time had beaten his features into submission, leaving a trail of misery and loss etched into every line and crease. He may have died a wealthy man, but it was the sacrifices he had made along the way that rang true in his gnarled face.

After a depressingly long pause, she straightened up and gestured to the table full of exhibits. "Process and document. If nothing turns up in the database, shelve it. What with the heat and the strikes, we've got too many cases right now to focus on a dead-end."

"Yes ma'am." Warrick nodded, obediently beginning the laborious job of un-tacking and filing his carefully arranged images from the wall.

Catherine watched him for a second or two longer, drumming her fingertips on the bench. She had meant what she said – Las Vegas was days away from a full-scale crime wave if things in the city didn't settle down; but something about this case told her that it wasn't entirely unsolvable.

Leaving him to his work, she snatched up the report and sailed out; one last lead to follow before they tossed the case onto the scrap heap.

Warrick was almost finished packing the exhibits back into the box when something bright and jarringly familiar caught his eye.

"What the hell...?" He muttered to himself, lifting the bag to get a better look. "Well, I'll be damned."

He shook out the casino chip into a gloved palm and held it up to the light. It was a 1958 chip from the Sands – rare, and worth quite a mint. Although, given this man's career choice, he probably wasn't short of funds. He had more than likely kept it as a souvenir of his youth.

Still, Warrick mused as he slipped it back into the evidence bag and placed it carefully in the box, it had to have meant something for him to be carrying it around in his pocket over four decades later.

* * *

><p><strong>July 3rd, 2004 - - Tangiers Casino<strong>

No matter how many times she walked through those door, she always felt like she had been swept back twenty years. The Tangiers had that effortlessly timeless quality of 'Old Vegas' that had long since faded from the increasingly glossy Strip.

In here, she could lose herself in the past – _her_ past. Endless nights of dancing and drinking, locked inside faded walls that could tell a million secrets, if only you had the time to listen to them all.

At least once a week she told herself that she would leave this town and all its sin behind. She would go east, to Kansas or Nebraska. Or maybe even further south – Florida, where the sun shone all year round.

And then she'd come back in here. She would close her eyes, and feel the carefree atmosphere of the seventies seeping back into her veins; and she would remember why she could never leave, not really. This town was a part of her; she had lived it and now a tiny piece of it would always live inside her. In her dreams, and her nightmares, where she could still hear the voices clear as day - the smooth saxophones of the jazz band and the cheerful clinking of coins in ancient slot machines.

A gentle hand on her shoulder startled her, the memories quickly dissolving back to just that as she snapped her eyes open and whirled around to face the very man she had come to see.

"Sam." She breathed, switching instantly into CSI mode. "I need to talk to you."

"You can always talk to me, Muggs." He grinned, that grimacing unreadable grin that both endeared and terrified her.

"This is business." She asserted before he could get any other ideas. Sam rolled his eyes, dropping his hand sadly back to his side.

"Of course it is." He sighed. "Come on, you'd better come in and sit down."

* * *

><p>"I knew Nino." He agreed, settling his bulky frame into the soft, well-worn leather. "Back when I was a floor manager, he worked the bar. That's where he first met Tony."<p>

"Tony Constantine." Catherine confirmed. "Big time mafia boss."

"Please." Sam scoffed, staring morosely at the lonesome ice cubes melting in the bottom of his otherwise empty tumbler. "Tony was a pussycat compared to some of the guys back then."

"What about Nino?" She pressed. "Was he a pussycat, too?"

"Nino." Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Nino was a character. He knew everybody's secrets, but no-one knew him. Not really."

"What does that mean?" She sat forwards, intrigued.

A waitress emerged, bathed in rouge from the tinted light hanging above their booth, with a fresh drink and a menu clasped in her perfectly manicured hands.

"Can I get you anything else, Mr Braun?" She asked in a sickeningly silky voice, bending forwards just enough to allow him a glimpse of her perfectly formed cleavage.

"I'm fine, thank you." He waved her away and she dutifully obliged, shooting a wary glance in Catherine's direction as she ducked out of sight. It was a look that the strawberry-blonde was used to receiving whenever she was around Sam's tag-along floozies, but it still left her feeling oddly unsettled whenever it happened.

Alone again, Sam took a long sip of his drink through a thin black straw, before fixing Catherine with the same intense gaze he'd held prior to their interruption.

"Nino played his cards close to his chest. He had a way of getting close to people without letting anybody get too close to him."

Cath nodded slowly in understanding, her eyes narrowing.

"Sounds familiar."

Sam bit back a bitter laugh.

"Muggs..."

"Thanks Sam." She stated coolly, sliding out of the booth. "I'll be in touch if I need anything else."

"Muggs, wait..." his hand shot out to grab her wrist tightly, earning him a shocked glare. "Just, promise me something."

"What is it?"

"Promise me you'll be careful. There are people out there who aren't going to like you asking these questions."

"It's my job to ask these questions." She pointed out, wrenching her arm free from his grip.

"Just be careful." He repeated earnestly, letting his own hand drop into his lap. "I know you don't trust me, but you're still my daughter and I don't want anything to happen to you."

She scrutinised him carefully, taking a stumbling step away from the table.

"Thanks, Sam." She repeated, refusing to let any air of concern slip into her voice even if it was written all over her face.

She left without looking back. She would return to the lab, check in with Warrick, pick up Lindsey from school and go home; where she would pretend to have an engaging conversation while the sullen pre-teen would pretend to eat her dinner.

But Sam's words would continue to plague her throughout the day, niggling and digging and making themselves a permanent little fixture in the back of her mind.


	3. July 3rd - July 4th 2004

**I should point out, anywhere the Italian isn't translated in the next couple of chapters is to put the readers in the character's shoes :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Gil Grissom's Office<strong>

"What do you think he meant by it?" Grissom cocked an eyebrow in mild concern as he sat back in his chair, the soft leather crackling with his subtle movements.

Catherine shifted and fidgeted awkwardly on the opposite side of the desk, her nervous blue orbs flitting anywhere but at his face. Gil's office, gloomy as ever, felt particularly claustrophobic today and everywhere her gaze fell there were dead, empty eyes staring back at her from inside jars and behind glass frames.

"I don't know." She threw her shoulders up helplessly, letting her strawberry-blonde waves fall in front of her face in an attempt to shield herself from his intense scrutiny. "I didn't stick around long enough to ask."

She had contemplated keeping her off-the-record meeting with Sam a secret; but after a sleepless day spent plagued by his parting comment, she had opted at last to confide in her old friend.  
>Things were still raw between them since he discovered she had cashed Sam's 'payoff' cheque; but if anything were to happen to her now, at least he couldn't accuse her of hiding things from him – again.<p>

"Have you noticed anything suspicious?" He pressed. "Any unusual cars on your street, anyone following you or Lindsey?"

"No, nothing." She shook her head. "But then, I haven't really been looking out for them."

She neglected to point out that she hadn't actually been home for more than a few hours at a time in over three weeks. It probably wouldn't help her case right now for him to know that she was practically living at work, lest she actually have to face up to her personal problems.

"Okay." Gil sighed, tenting his fingertips against his lips. "I'll make sure there's always one of the boys working the next few scenes with you, just in case. And if anything unusual happens – anything at all – you tell me straight away." He paused, tapping his chin in thought. "I'll call Brass and arrange for a uniformed officer to be stationed outside your house for a couple of days."

The obstinately defensive part of her wanted to rebut the idea, to tell him that she did not need guarding against her own father. However, one look at Gil's stern expression and she wisely chose to keep her mouth shut, offering only a blunt nod of acceptance.

Satisfied that she was not going to contest the directives, he mirrored her response and slipped his glasses on, turning his attention back to his computer screen.

For a painfully long moment, neither made any other movement.

"Is that it?" Cath enquired when the stuffy silence became too much for her to bear. He glanced up, giving her a casual once-over as if their last conversation had already vacated his memory.

"Well, was there something else?"

She rolled her eyes at his typical abruptness and heaved herself out of the seat. Heaven forbid he should actually have to offer comfort or friendly support every once in a while.

"No, that was it." She sighed, gesturing in the general direction of the break room; where the rest of the team were undoubtedly starting to get restless. "I'll ... uh, hand out assignments, shall I?"

"Would you?" He asked, his attention already absorbed in whatever fascinating and likely unrelated piece of literature he had found to distract himself from case reviews for the better part of the evening.

* * *

><p><strong>July 3rd4th, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

Bobby had prayed to God not to be the bearer of bad news, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears; thus he found himself standing alone outside the rotting wooden door on this overcast night. Above him, the sky looked heavy and threatening, as if at any moment it would collapse under its own weight. Out here, away from the close muggy heat of the city, there was little protection from the elements and he shivered against a brief and sudden chill wind.

Raising a trembling hand, he knocked twice and nudged the brittle door open.

"Raymond?" He called out, stepping cautiously across the creaky floorboards.

There was a narrow crack in the panelled wall, just large enough to allow a strip of moonlight to seep inside; like the blade of a knife, severing the room in half.

"Cosi? Avete fatto?" [_So? Have you done it?_] A gruff voice enquired from the murky depths of the cavernous space.

It was pitch black, but for a small lamp burning away on the desk in the farthest corner. The dull light bulb flickered, casting deceptive shadows on the stony face staring back at him and making it impossible to determine the man's expression.

"Egli non rispondere i nostri messaggi." [_He's not answering our messages._] The younger man explained meekly, a distinct tremor to his voice despite every effort to maintain his composure. "E da ieri, non sappiamo dove si trova."[_And as of yesterday, we don't know where he is._]

"Allora," [_Well then,_] The boss sat forwards and flexed both wrists until they cracked, a sound which made Bobby wince. "Dobbiamo essere piu chiaro nel nostro messaggio." [_We need to be clearer in our message._]

He stood up and drifted across the room in slow, calculated movements, eventually coming to stop in front of the window. He dragged a finger down the cracked, heavily stained pane of glass and examined it with distrust. The single-story building was decrepit, near squalid. But out in the middle of the desert, it was private and far enough away from the city that no one would stumble upon it by accident.

Out here, there was no one to witness their conversations but the bones of men who had long since run out of luck in the town where fortune was a relative term.

"Fammi uni dei ragazzi – il primogenito." [_Bring me one of the boys – the eldest._]

"Um," the younger man shifted uncomfortably, shuffling his feet across the dusty floor. "Non sara possibile. Sono ... sono raggiungibile." [_That won't be possible. They're ... they're unreachable_.] Sensing that the Raymond was not going to take too kindly to that news, he quickly added; "C'e una ragazza, anche se." [_There's a girl, though._]

The boss turned, his attention peaked once more.

"C'era una figlia?" [_There was a daughter?_]

"Si, lavora per la polizia." [_Yes, she works for the police._]

"Buona. Molto buona." [_Good. Very Good._] He whirled away from the window to face his young companion again, the first hint of gratitude showing beneath his seemingly permanent frown. "Voglio che la regazza." [_I want the girl._]

"Lo mi occupero di esso." [_I'll take care of it._] Taking the order as an opportunity to get the hell out of there, Bobby quickly scuttled back to the door, but a sharp holler stopped him in his tracks.

"No!" Raymond held up his hand, finally stepping out of the shadows into the narrow strip of light adorning the battered floorboards and revealing his weathered face. "Voglio che la ragazza portato qui – vivo." [_I want the girl brought here – alive._]

* * *

><p><strong>July 4th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room<strong>

"Ogni eredità può rifiutare, ma sangue." Warrick's feeble attempt to get his tongue around the foreign words failed to shed any light on the obscure message and the trio continued to stare it at in bemusement.

"Where did you say you found this?" Grissom asked, extracting his glasses to read the note for himself; as if it might suddenly translate itself once the letters became clearer.

"It was stuffed in his top pocket." Warrick explained, pressing his palms into his tired eyes. "Mandy already ran prints – no dice. And there's nothing on the paper to identify where it might have come from."

While the men continued to scratch their heads over the peculiar piece of evidence, Catherine had relocated herself to the corner of the lab and was busy tapping away on a laptop.

"'Any legacy may refuse, but blood'." She recited, her narrowed eyes scanning the text twice to make sure she had typed it correctly. "It's Italian, apparently."

Grissom and Warrick glanced up, only noticing for the first time that she had wandered away from the table.

"What?"

"That's what is says." She clarified, ambling back towards them. "Depending how much you trust Google Translator, of course."

"'Any legacy may refuse, but blood'." Warrick repeated, turning the cryptic words over in his mouth. "What do you suppose that means."

"I don't know." Grissom frowned, clearly perplexed at the thought that their suspect had found a subject area in which he was not well versed.

"I suppose it means that you can't return your genes." Catherine guessed, resting her hands on the table top. "There are some things that are passed down through families that you might not be able to reject or walk away from."

"Huh." Warrick nodded. That would certainly not have been his first presumption, but since he didn't have a better answer he wasn't going to contest the woman's explanation. "So, you think this is some kind of message?"

"A message?" Grissom echoed, having finally caught on to the killer's deeper meaning. He lifted his gaze slowly to meet Catherine's; and one look into her eyes told him that she, too, had worked out what the little piece of paper really was. "A threat."

* * *

><p><strong>July 4th, 2004<strong>

She locked the car door, checking it twice before walking away. It was a habit she had developed years ago, a classic example of the kind of paranoia that creeps into your daily life when you spend every waking moment dealing with the scourge of society.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she made her way up the steps, stifling a yawn as she went. It had been a long shift, not in the least due to the flurry of rumours circulating on the grapevine as a result of the dead mobster case and Sam Braun's peculiar warning. It was certainly concerning and she'd considered staying at the lab a bit longer because of it, but she desperately needed sleep.

With each step she took, her feet seemed to get heavier and heavier, until she was practically dragging them to the front door. All she wanted to do right now was fall into bed and put those worrying thoughts out of her mind for a few meagre hours before she had to get up and do it all over again.

However, when she finally reached the front door, her whole body went cold.

It was already open. Someone had beaten her here.

Wide awake and alert now, she instinctively reached for her weapon and clicked the safety off. All appeared dark and undisturbed inside, but she wasn't taking any chances as she gently nudged the door open with her boot-clad foot and moved stealthily into the threshold. She half expected to find someone standing startled in front of her, but it was a tentative creak from behind that caught her attention.

She heard a soft, instantly recognisable click and her blood turned to ice.

"Solo che." A chilling voice muttered in her ear.

She shook her head to indicate that she didn't understand, but before a single word made it past her trembling lips a hand appeared over her mouth and she felt something cold and hard come down against the back of her skull.

Her last fleeting memory as she sank to the ground in a swirl of grey lights was the silhouette of a man standing above her and the heart-stopping fear settling in the pit of her stomach as she found herself staring up the barrel of a rifle.


	4. July 4th - July 5th 2004

**July 4****th****, 2004 (Evening) - - Las Vegas Police Department, Jim Brass' Office**

"So, nothing happened?" Brass quirked an eyebrow, sitting forward and fixing his subordinate with a sceptical glare. "Nobody snooping around, no unusual vehicles ... nothing?"

He knew from bitter experience that surveillance was one of the most loathed jobs for any police officer – it was eight hours in a confined space with a limited view and dull, monotonous conversation about recent sports results. If you hadn't punched your partner by the end of the shift, you'd certainly be ready to see the back of them for a few weeks.  
>But Officer Matson and his partner – a relatively new rookie, lurking quietly outside the glass-walled office – had been warned that if they slipped up on this task, they could kiss their careers goodbye.<p>

"No, nothing." Matson assured him with a mildly frustrated sigh. "We were there all day and the most exciting thing we saw was two pigeons fighting over half a sandwich. Apparently, Ms Willows lives on one of the most boring streets in Las Vegas."

"Good." Brass nodded, blatantly ignoring the man's fractious sarcasm at being made to sit in a cramped car all day for no fruitful result. As far as the seasoned detective was concerned – and he was sure that Catherine would agree – 'boring' was perfectly adequate. He uncapped his pen and scrawled a half-hearted signature on the release form, thrusting it back into the cop's hand. "Now go away."

The police officer rolled his eyes at the abrupt dismissal and sloped back into the hallway, where his equally pissed off colleague was waiting impatiently for feedback.

Alone again, Jim allowed himself a few minutes reprieve to slump back in his seat and enjoy the rare peaceful quiet of his spacious office. He had a busy shift ahead and this could easily be the last chance he would get to sit down until daybreak. His first task, however, was to phone Grissom and inform him of the comforting news that, for now at least, Catherine and Lindsey did not appear to be in any immediate danger.

It didn't help them solve Nino Carmine's death, but it would settle a few fluttering nerves.

Figuring that there was no time like the present, he reached for the phone. However, just as his fingertips grazed its smooth surface, it rang.

Shaking away the momentary surprise, he snatched up the device.

"Brass."

He had expected it to be Gil himself, fishing for news. He expected wrong.

There was an achingly long pause as he rose autonomously out of his chair, all of the colour draining from his weather-beaten face.

"When?!"

* * *

><p><strong>July 4th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room<strong>

"Have you spoken to Sam yet?" Nick asked, handing the woman a mug of desperately-needed coffee, if her exhausted sighs and red-rimmed eyes were anything to go by.

"No." She moped, taking a long sip of the hot drink and savouring its rich, bitter taste for as long as possible. "I tried calling him, he's not answering."

"Well, whoever he thinks is after you, they'll have to go through us first." Warrick assured her with a friendly squeeze of the shoulder.

She attempted a smile, but even that proved too much effort and she settled for a grateful nod instead.

"He was probably just spouting off." She mused hopefully. "Whatever his connection to Nino, it doesn't have anything to do with me. He just likes to get under my skin."

"Catherine."

She visibly jumped at the stern voice; suggesting that yesterday's anxiety was still eating away at her, despite her previous statement.

They all turned to find the bulky frame of Jim Brass filling the doorway. Ordinarily unflappable, he looked unusually flustered today as he twisted a familiar gold watch around his wrist. The twitchy, restless movements and narrowed blue eyes made it effortlessly clear that something was very wrong; and that fact alone set everyone else's teeth on edge. "Where's Grissom?"

"He's stuck in a meeting with the Undersheriff. We're expecting him any minute." Cath answered, a slight tremor in her voice as she picked up on the seething urgency bubbling just beneath the surface of his demeanour. "What's going on?"

"It's Sara," he exhaled, the words feeling almost too big for his mouth to form. "She's missing."

* * *

><p>The drop in temperature was almost palpable, as if a cool wind had enveloped the entire room and settled over it like a low fog; the kind that seeps into your very skin and chills you to the bone.<p>

"Her neighbour called the police after finding her apartment door open and no sign of the owner." Brass repeated himself for the benefit of the newly arrived supervisor. "Responding officers found her car, bag, keys and cell phone; but there's no Sara." He paused, flicking his gaze from one concerned face to the next. "They also found blood in the threshold."

"Oh man." Warrick dragged a hand over his face.

"What about her weapon?" Nick asked, his foot tapping incessantly on the tiled floor seemingly beyond his control. "She wouldn't have left it here."

"No sign of it in her possessions," Brass noted, a tiny touch of hope entering his voice. "So that's something, I suppose."

"No." Cath shook her head, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heart pounding against her ribcage. "If she could have used it, she would have."

"So, what now?" Warrick asked, swiftly moving them away from the blonde's depressing statement. True as it may be, he really didn't want to go there yet.

"Grab Greg and go through all of her recent cases, see if anything stands out." Grissom instructed the dark-skinned CSI. "Catherine, you and Nick go to her apartment and see..."

"No." Cath cut him off. "I've got someone I want to talk to first."

Nick met her eye and a knowing look crossed his features.

"Sam?" He queried. "You don't think..."

She didn't answer at first, but her expression said it all. Her crystal blue eyes were glazed, almost opaque, and sunken into her sheet-white face; her lips so pale that they were barely visible against her deathly pale complexion.

"I don't know." She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat, already moving towards the door on unstable legs. "But I'm going to find out."

* * *

><p><strong>July 4<strong>**th****, 2004 (night) - - Tangiers Casino**

When she had left the breakroom, she had been shaken. Upon making it to the parking lot, she was determined. And by the time she abandoned the car outside the Tangiers Casino, much to the bemusement of the young valet, she was hell-bent on getting an answer.

There was no time for reminiscing on this visit as she stormed up to the front desk and slammed both hands on the counter, alarming the petite woman who was busily tapping away at a computer.

"I want to talk to Sam."

"I'm afraid Mr Braun is in a very important meeting and asked not to be disturbed." The receptionist recited dutifully, flicking her shoulder-length blonde hair over her shoulders with a perfectly manicured hand. "If you like, I can take a message..." Her expression slowly faded from boredom to dismay when it became apparent that Catherine was not willing to accept that answer. "Ma'am, I'm afraid you can't..."

But it was too late. By the time she had extracted herself from behind the cluttered desk; Cath had already cleared the reception area and was making a beeline for the stairwell. The security guard, upon catching a glimpse of her ID badge and that eerily familiar gaze, wisely stepped aside before she mowed him down.

Upstairs, she found her way to Sam's office with little problem and threw the heavy oak door open with a loud, attention-grabbing creak.

True to the receptionist's word, he was indeed in a meeting; but she barely spared his companions a glance as she tore between them and rounded the oversized desk.

"Where is she?" She demanded, getting in his face as much as was possible without sitting on him. She jabbed a firm finger into his chest, drawing a surprised snicker from one of his guests. "Who has her?"

Contrary to her rash actions, Sam remained perfectly composed as he lifted himself slowly from his seat, gripped Cath by the arm and guided her away from the gathered men.

"Catherine, you shouldn't be here." He spoke in a low, warning tone.

"Never mind me-" she shrugged him off roughly. "Two days ago you told me to watch my back, and now my colleague's gone missing."

"Tragic." He noted without a hint of sympathy. "But it's nothing to do with me."

She glanced around the room for the first time, taking in the sullen, scowling faces of the hulking men staring back at her. She hadn't considered what sort of meeting he could be having at this time of night, but it seemed patently obvious now.

"I don't believe it." She scrunched up her nose, taking a deliberate step out of his reach. "You're arranging security for yourself?"

"I'm taking precaution." He paraphrased. "Nino was a friend. I don't want to take any chances."

She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yeah, well I need to go find _my_ friend before it's too late." She spat. "And if I find out you had something to do with it, I swear to god..."

He cocked an eyebrow expectantly, but she left the threat hanging.

There was no doubt in her mind as she strode down the lengthy hallway, fighting back angry tears, that Sam knew more than he was letting on about Nino's death.

And her threat had not been an idle one – if she found anything that linked him to Sara's disappearance, she would make damn sure he did not slip through the net this time.

But first she had to find Sara, and evidently she wasn't going to do that here.

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

It was stiflingly hot, as if even the world outside was struggling to breathe.

For a heart-stopping moment she thought that she had gone blind, before her blurry eyes started to adjust to the darkness. Even then, she still had difficulty making anything out.  
>Then again, there wasn't much to see; a poorly blacked-out window built into a wood panelled wall, a cracked once-white sink connected to a pipe that didn't go anywhere, and a door leading into a narrow hallway of seemingly never-ending blackness.<p>

She tried to sit further upright, but found to her distress that she couldn't move. Her arms felt tight and heavy, forced uncomfortably behind her back. She was restrained. She tried to lift her head, but a shot of pain coursed down her spine at the move and she whimpered meekly.

That's when it came flooding back to her. The man, the gun, a bumpy car ride. The memories were faint and try as she might, she couldn't draw to mind a face.

She slowly managed to shift herself upright, twisting herself into a position that allowed her a little more movement. Her hands were chained to something metal and unyielding - something fixed to the wall. A radiator, perhaps. Every minor movement caused the heavy links to clang, causing an ominous echo to resonate around the empty space.

Or not so empty, she realised now; for she was not alone in the dingy room.

Beside her, sat on the only piece of furniture, a dark figure was scrutinising her silently. The only light between them emanated from the tiny red flame on the end of his cigarette.

"Who are you?" She asked hoarsely, attempting to turn her face towards him. It felt dull and heavy, as if it were full of mercury; and any movement, however small made her whole body cry out in pain. She could practically feel the bruises forming where she had been battered on her journey to whatever circle of hell this was. "Why are you doing this?"

"Non e nesessario sapere chi siamo."

She blinked in confusion. The words sounded almost familiar, but in her current foggy state she couldn't make any sense of them.

"What do you want from me?" She asked again, tears beginning to sting at her burning eyes. She didn't know if they were from the pain or the fear, or both. It didn't seem to matter, as her pleas continued to fall on deaf ears.

"Vogliamo che lui."

"I ... I don't understand." She begged, tugging at the chains that were cutting fiercely into her slender wrists. "Please, just let me go."

She knew that she must sound pitiful, but she didn't really care. She was frightened and disorientated and she didn't know where the hell she was. She didn't even know how long she had been here. How long had he been sat in that rickety wooden chair, watching her drift helplessly between conscious realms?

The man vacated the precariously creaky seat and crouched down beside her. She couldn't help but flinch as he raised a hand to stub out his cigarette on the wall next to her face, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the scarce gap between them.

When he spoke, it was with a thick accent and a bitter drawl.

"I want the man who killed my father."


	5. New Year's Eve 1958

**New Years Eve, 1958 - - New York City**

The noise from the street was like a drum beat, thumping around the thin walls in a dull, repetitive rhythm. The atmosphere outside was almost corporeal – even cooped up in this dingy, dank little flat; he could feel the excitement pulsing around the city.

He moved stealthily to the window and peered down into the street. It was a sea of colour, like a rainbow river flowing towards Times Square.

Turning away from the joviality outside, he scanned his meagre surroundings. The fifth floor apartment was bare and depressing, but it suited his needs down to the ground. It was quiet, isolated and had a perfectly unobstructed view of Seventh Avenue.

Ambling back to the lone table at the far end of the room, he picked up the gun. He had chosen it especially for its size – small calibre, compact and easy to conceal. Beside it lay a box of untouched ammunition. Fifty lethal little bullets, but he would only need one.

On the streets, shrieks of delight ricocheted off the high buildings as the revellers below prepared for what had been billed as a New Year to remember forever.

It was a night for celebration.

A night for justice.

* * *

><p>Joseph threw his head back, releasing a booming laugh. His arm was slung protectively around a young woman's shoulders as they joined the ranks treading the iconic New York street towards The Great White Way.<p>

With her midnight black hair and inquisitive blue orbs, Natalia had caught his eye instantly. At barely twenty years old, she was a few years younger than him and had a body that any woman would kill for. She was wild, fierce and could whip a man into shape with a single lash of her sharp tongue. It was love at first sight; and after only a few short weeks, he had proposed in lavish fashion over the most expensive bottle of champagne in the famous Toots Shor's restaurant.

Today was their wedding day.

"I want to get closer." She tugged him into the crowd, forcing her way to the centre of the action despite her diminutive stature.

He rolled his eyes, allowing himself to be dragged. He hadn't even wanted to come out on this cold and drizzly night. It was, after all, their wedding night. But she had insisted and he felt obliged to obey.

Having left the hotel late, for reasons that were still bringing a smile to his cracked lips, they had missed a lot of the festivity already, but she wasn't about to miss the biggest event of the year, no matter how amorous her new husband was feeling.

And Joseph Acerbi was a slave to only three things in his life: his cigars, his business and his woman.

It had always been said that, sooner or later, one of them would kill him.

* * *

><p>He loaded the bullets into the weapon one by one, revelling in the gentle click each one made as it slid into place. Spinning the barrel, he grinned menacingly to himself in the dark.<p>

"Perfetto." [_Perfect_]

Now he just had to wait, and watch.

Joseph was a man of habit, and he would be easily recognisable from five hundred paces away in his oversized fedora and extravagant fur-lined trench coat. Finding him would be an easy task.

He stared down at the weapon in his lap, stroking the cool metal with the palm of his calloused hand. His stomach was turning somersaults at the anticipation of what he was about to do; and the knowledge that he was doing it for the greater good.

Joseph was a fine man, but he was getting too big for his boots and it was only a matter of time before he overstepped the careful boundaries of business and cold-blooded murder.

The last thing the organisation needed was another Al Capone.

* * *

><p>The jazzman on the hastily-erected stage swung down towards the ecstatic audience, the smooth brass of his saxophone twinkling under the glittering lights; though the sound of his music was barely even audible over the roar from the liquor-drenched crowd. Above them, a spotlight searched the road as a camera was beaming grainy real-time images of America's most talked about party around the country.<p>

It would be several hours before word spread that Fulgenicio Batista – the overbearing dictator of Cuba – had fled his country in the face of the Cuban Revolution, but celebration was already well under way.

The glistening road, wet from the earlier storm, was illuminated by the bright beams of colour radiating from above; the giant sign hanging above the Rialto reflected on every surface. Heels splashed through puddles and the cuffs of pants became sodden and heavy as they soaked up the rain, but nobody cared as they cheered and danced and raised drinks under the endlessly black sky.

It was just before midnight.

* * *

><p>He strode purposefully down the boulevard, keeping his gaze low. The weapon tucked into his waistband felt conspicuous and he tugged self-consciously at the long jacket wrapped around him.<p>

He had done this before, but never in the open. Never with so many spectators.

It was bitterly cold, but he seemed to be the only one who could feel it as the people around him twirled and swayed to an inaudible tune in only knee-length dresses and short-sleeved shirts.

High above, a large crystal ball began to descend from the heavens, emerging through the remaining wisps of cloud that were floating lazily across the otherwise clear winter sky. A chant began, resounding all around him, counting down from ten.

He paused, seeking a glimpse of his target in the tightly packed congregation.

"_Nine!"_

He continued on, forcing his way through unnoticed – a ghost in the masses.

"_Eight!"_

His hands were beginning to tremble as he reached inside his coat and extracted the weapon.

"_Seven!"_

His feet pounded on the pavement, splashing icy cold water up the sides of his innocuous black pants.

"_Six!"_

He spotted the man straight up ahead in his trademark attire, a line of smoke trailing from the stogie suspended between his grinning lips.

"_Five!"_

He came to a stop behind Joseph and swallowed hard, casting a glance at the people to his immediate left and right.

"_Four!"_

Nobody was watching him, their attention enamoured with the glitter ball dropping from on high. He held the weapon against his chest and clicked the safety off.

"_Three!"_

He raised it, taking a second to steady his grip.

"_Two!"_

His fingertip lightly brushed the trigger and he took a deep breath.

"_One!"_

The tip of the barrel was barely an inch from Joseph's neck.

"_Happy New Year!"_

A rolling explosion echoed all around the intersection as a clock began to strike the midnight hour and the dark sky ruptured into colour; the first fireworks bursting in a flash of orange and yellow and red.

In the middle of the elated crowd, the sound of lady's shrill cry died amid the joyous cheer.

The gun clattered to the ground, its shooter already melting into a shield of people. Joseph Acerbi fell to his knees and emitted a final strangled gasp before slumping to the ground, blood soaking into the rich Canadian squirrel fur surrounding the collar of his coat and pooling on the wet stone; the deep red reflecting every colour of the spectrum from the fireworks and the iconic lights of Times Square.

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

Sara tried to move, but the callous clanking of chains reminded her why it was an effort in vain.

She had realised by now what language he was speaking and managed to decipher a few stray sentences.

When she and her brothers were first learning to talk, her mother had only spoken in Italian and her father in English to ensure they learnt both languages simultaneously. But she hadn't spoken Italian in over ten years; even Laura had all but abandoned her mother tongue now.

She frowned in concentration, struggling to recall some of the words that lay long buried in her memory.

"Che cosa ... che cosa ha a che fare questo con me?" [_What...what does this have to do with me?_]

"Non si." [_Not you._] He breathed, sitting back in the creaky chair and crossing one leg stiffly over the other. "Il nonno." [_Your grandfather._]

"Nonno" She repeated softly, drawing to mind the image of a stern expression and piercing dark eyes. Sara had only ever met her grandfather a couple of times. She remembered him as a severe man with a hair-pin trigger temper. He had frightened her.

Could he have killed a man? Quite possibly, although how taking her hostage was supposed to attain revenge, she didn't quite understand

"Mi nonno?"[_My grandfather?_] She asked at last, probing for more details.

"Pochi mesi prima di morire, mio padre ha incontrato tre uomini." [_A few months before he died, my father met with three men._] Her keeper explained hoarsely, spluttering out a tobacco-laden cough even as he extracted a lighter from his top pocket. "Credo che uno di quegli uomini ucciso." [_I believe one of those men killed him._]

"Nino Carmine?" She guessed.

She hadn't actually been working the dead gangster case, but the potential threats against Catherine had meant that she had picked up a fair few details through the grapevine.

"Egli era li." [_He was there._] The man confirmed. She had a feeling that she knew who the third man was, but she daren't mention his name lest they figure out _how_ she knew. Heaven forbid, Sam's warning should come to fruition and Catherine end up in this hell, too.

"Non ho vista mio nonno negli anni." [_I haven't seen my grandfather in years._] She pointed out instead, surprising herself by how easily the words were starting to flood back to her. "Non so nemmeno mi manca." [_He won't even know I'm missing._]

"Eglie sara,"[_He will,_] the man exhaled slowly, tapping his newly lit cigarette against his kneecap. "Poco." [_Soon._]

She watched the ash fall onto the rotten wooden floor with dismay, coming to the sad realisation that she was going to be here for some time.


	6. July 5th 2004

**As always, a big thanks to those reading and reviewing :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, 'Sara's Lab'**

There was a strange buzz around the lab on this unusually stormy evening; an atmosphere of discontent. By now, there wasn't a single person in the department unaware that a CSI was missing; and that kind of news tended to create a feeling of unquenchable energy, like an adrenaline rush that you just couldn't burn off.

As a result of this, the graveyard shift had felt far too exposed working in the goldfish bowl that was the layout room and had decided to relocate. They were now taking refuge in what had long since become dubbed 'Sara's lab'. They understood now why she preferred to work up here - it was quiet, well out of the way of the general foot-traffic. Still, they remained under constant scrutiny, as every person wandering past the glass walls threw concerned glances their way; as if hoping to glimpse a key piece of evidence or a sign that they were making progress.

Unfortunately, progress was infuriatingly slow tonight.

"I've checked up on all the significant cases Sara's worked in the past, anyone who may still have a cross to bear with her; but as far as I can tell they're all either still in prison or they're deceased." Grissom explained his curious absence all day. He had left the legwork to his team, preferring instead to mope around his office in stunned silence as he struggled to get his head around the bizarre disappearance of his most enigmatic criminalist. "What about you guys? Any luck?"

"We checked all of Sara's more recent cases but there's nothing that stands out." Warrick exhaled in frustration, slamming his palms onto the table next to the impressive stack of folders comprising Sara's current case load.  
>The brunette had certainly been busy these last few weeks, even by her own impossibly high standards.<p>

Beside him, Greg remained silent and twitchy as he flicked his wide eyes around the room. It was no secret that he had been aching to get in on a high-profile case for several months, ever since Grissom indicated there may be an opportunity for him to move into the field one day.  
>Now his chance was here, but it was just too close to the bone. What if he screwed up? What if he missed some vital piece of evidence and it cost Sara her life?<br>He was out of his depth. She was his best friend, and he felt utterly at sea.

"Widen the time frame." Gil instructed bluntly, oblivious to the young man's inner turmoil. "What did her neighbours say?"

"Nothing much." Nick moaned, the futile efforts of the day visibly taking their toll on him. "Just that she was quiet, kept to herself and _never_ left the door unlocked. Nobody spoke to her on the morning she went missing, and no-one saw anything suspicious."

"Sounds about right." Catherine mused, shaking her head in despair. "So, we have nothing concrete to go on? What about security cameras from her apartment building?"

"Archie's checking the tapes now, but I wouldn't hold my breath." The Texan continued dejectedly. "They only cover the parking lot and the street immediately outside it."

"Well, keep looking. Maybe we'll get lucky." Grissom heaved a sigh, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The man looked utterly drained as he pushed himself away from the bench and lumbered his weary frame towards the corridor. He paused in the doorway, nothing more than a hunched silhouette against the contrastingly bright lights outside the darkened room. "Brass is getting a subpoena to check her phone records and emails. In the meantime, go over all the evidence we've got from her apartment with a fine-toothed comb. They must have left a piece of themselves behind."

The last part was almost a desperate plea, a prayer for anyone who was listening to give them something useful to go on.

But Catherine hadn't even heard it. As his parting words filtered through the fog in her mind, her whole body stiffened with a sudden realisation.

"Oh, God." She groaned, slapping a hand to her forehead. "I can't believe I forgot!"

"What?" Nick frowned. Warrick reached out a hand to steady her unsteady movements, but she ducked out of his grasp.

"It was a few weeks ago, I ... I was working with Sara and she got a phone call." She babbled, wringing her hands anxiously in front of her. "Except _she_ didn't actually get it..."

* * *

><p><strong>March 19<strong>**th, ****2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab**

Even if Catherine was aware that Sara was ignoring her, it didn't stop her from voicing her thoughts on the puzzling case.

Camped out on opposite sides of the room, the two women had both become deeply enamoured with their own tasks and the heavy silence hanging between them was only exasperated by the peculiar calm that had settled over the lab tonight. Ultimately – as was usually the case – the lack of background noise got to Cath long before Sara and she felt the undying urge to rectify the situation with idle chat.

Sara hummed intermittently in agreement, humouring the strawberry-blonde's need to fill the silence with random pieces of information and unhelpful rhetorical questions.

"If there is a connection between the two victims, we can presume it's not through the wives; since one was a housewife and the other a high-flying lawyer. The husbands could be connected through their business links, although that still doesn't lead us to a motive." She rattled off, her gaze never leaving the many, many pages of DNA results Greg had so cheerfully handed her.  
>"And we still don't know the relevance of the Walker's residence."<p>

Finally, something broke through Sara's wall of concentration and she looked up.

"Walker?" She repeated.

"Yeah, they own the house where the victim's car was parked." Cath explained. "Of course it's entirely possible that the killer took the car and parked it there at random to throw us off, but..."

"I'll be right back." Sara interrupted, a twinkle of recognition flashing across her eye as she hopped off the stool and scuttled out of the room.

"Okay." Catherine agreed, watching her disappear with a small frown. Shrugging it off, she returned her attention to her notes and resumed the absent chewing on her pen to deal with the lonely silence of the unseemly quiet lab.

Thankfully, she didn't have to bear it for too long before the trilling of a cell phone shattered the peace. She glanced up, watching the device vibrate across the table top.

Her own phone was still clipped to her belt, so it must be Sara's.

Instinctively, she knew that she should leave it to go to voicemail and let Sara deal with it when she got back; but curiosity got the better of her and she snatched it up, squinting at the little screen.

Dylan

She didn't know anyone called Dylan. It certainly wasn't someone from work. There was no surname, so she could presume it was not a witness or somebody else connected to a case.

Realising that it was likely a personal call, she was about to let it ring out; when it dawned on her that most people don't make personal calls at 3am. What if it was important? What if something had happened that Sara needed to know about?  
>Squashing the little voice in her head telling her that it was wrong to pry, she answered it.<p>

"Hello, S..."

"Hey, I got your message." A throaty male voice jumped in before she could finish the introduction. "And I'm going to tell you what I already told Seth. We are not touching that money. If you need cash, find it somewhere else, because I'm not signing anything."

"Hey, listen," she tried to interject, but he cut her off abruptly. He was slurring, so much so that she could almost smell the whiskey and cannabis drifting down the phone line with every bitter word he spat.

"No, you listen sis. You have no idea about the kind of hell you're going to unleash if you access that money. We are not going to open that can of worms! If you need help, get a fucking loan like everyone else!"

"Uh, I don't think..."

"Oh, and Sar." He continued, oblivious to her continued attempts to stop him. "Don't sit at the same table for dinner every night. You never know who might be watching you."

With that endearing sentiment, the line went dead.

Catherine stared at the phone for a long moment, before carefully snapping it shut and replacing it on the table.

Sara needed money.

But who was he? He had called her 'sis'. She supposed it could just be a nickname, but the more likely explanation was that Sara had gone to her brother for help, and he had slammed the door in her face.

So, who was this Seth guy? And, more importantly, why was Sara so desperate for money that she was willing to 'unleash hell', to coin a term.

Catherine didn't have time to process these questions ringing in her ears before the very woman came back in, a sheepish smile dancing on her lips.

"Sorry about that, I got held up." Sara explained, throwing her hands up. "Hodges caught me."

If she noticed the look of concern on Catherine's face, she didn't react to it as she proudly slid a document across the table towards the senior CSI.

"It's okay." Cath drawled, studying her partner through an investigative eye. Sara had lost weight lately. She hadn't noticed it until now, but it seemed so obvious under the harsh lights. And she was tired. She waited until Sara had sat down again before reaching a tentative hand across the table. "Hey, is everything alright?"

"Yeah." Sara blinked, surprised by her supervisor's apparent lack of interest in the information she was offering. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Cath shifted, unable to come up with a valid response that didn't give her away.

"You just seem ... stressed, lately." She settled on at last. "You know, if you ever need anything, my door is always open."

Sara nodded slowly, perplexed by the unusual offer.

"Thanks." She agreed carefully. "I ... um, I found a connection between our victim and the address you mentioned."

Picking up on the younger woman's unadulterated attempt to change the subject, she finally accepted the piece of paper.

A part of her debated telling Sara about the call, but she quickly decided against it. If Sara had wanted them to know, she would have told them herself.

And besides, once she admitted to answering Sara's phone, the girl would probably clam up faster than a suspect looking at a sentence on death row.

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, 'Sara's Lab'  
><strong>

"Did you ask her about it?" Nick pressed urgently.

"Of course not. How could I?" Cath shrugged, clawing her hands through her hair. "I should never have answered it in the first place. I thought once I told her, that she would shut down on me; especially with it being such a personal matter."

"Yeah, but about money?" Warrick clarified. "Do you think she's in some kind of trouble?"

"I don't know. It certainly sounded that way. I tried for days to get her to open up to me, but she wouldn't crack."

"Well, why the hell didn't you tell us about it?" Nick demanded, slamming his fist onto the table.

"I..." She shook her head mutely. Honestly, she didn't have an answer for that. She supposed, deep down, she hadn't told them out of loyalty to Sara's privacy – not that that meant a great deal now, given the circumstances.

"Now, hold up." Warrick reigned his irate friend in with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Do you know the exact date of that phone call?"

"I could look it up." Cath nodded, blinking back fretful tears. "I know what we were working on at the time, so it'll be in my notes. Why?"

"Because if Brass gets the warrant to check her phone records, we can find out where that call was coming from and track down this 'Dylan' guy. If he is her brother, he might know what's going on."

"Why do we need to wait for the warrant?" Greg piped up for the first time. "We've got her cell phone in evidence. Can't we just trace the call from that?"

There was a few seconds where the seasoned CSIs all stared at the young lab tech in surprise, before his intelligent suggestion spurred them into action.

"I'll grab Archie and tell him to set up the computer to do a cell site analysis." Nick asserted, gesturing for Greg to retrieve the cell phone from the evidence vault.

"I'll fill Grissom in." Catherine added, sweeping her notes into a haphazard pile.

The three of them scampered out in opposite directions, glad to finally have some leads to follow. Alone in the wake of their hurried departure, Warrick rested his whole weight against the table, shaking his head slowly in loss.

"Damn girl." He sighed, picking up the photograph of Sara from the centre of the table and dragging the pad of his thumb across its glossy surface affectionately. "What kind of mess have you gotten yourself in to?"


	7. December 18th 1964

**All flashbacks in this one, but they will (hopefully, if I've planned it right) fall into place soon.**

* * *

><p><strong>December 18th, 1964 - - New York City<strong>

"What am I doing?" She asked herself for the millionth time, attempting to straighten out the invisible creases in her dress. It was far too cold to be wearing such a flimsy garment, but she thought it might make her appear purer; more innocent. Given the information she was about to divulge – and who she was sharing it with – that could only work in her favour.

Outside, wispy snowflakes were fluttering past the grimy window and settling in a fine dust on the litter-strewn Brooklyn street. She shivered against her will, wrapping her slender arms around her body in an attempt to convince herself that it was only due to the cold.

She saw him coming long before he arrived, striding down the street as if he didn't have a care in the world. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his knee-length midnight-black coat and a cigarette was hanging out of his mouth, a trail of ash falling at his feet. His shoulder-length brown hair was blowing in the bracing afternoon breeze beneath a familiar silk-lined fedora.

He looked far too relaxed given the nature of his career and the current political situation. Thanks to Joseph Valachi testifying live on air last year, the Feds were hot on the heels of every major gangster in America. Of course, her father knew how to cover his tracks.  
>She knew that from bitter experience.<p>

If she hadn't already been seated she would have likely fallen over, as her knees turned to jelly as soon as she saw him advance. She took several quick mouthfuls of her drink just to settle the butterflies in her stomach. Or drown them, whichever worked fastest.

Angelo Valentino was a man who had always enjoyed making an entrance, and today was no exception. He threw the cafe door open and sailed into the dingy space as if it were his castle. For a moment he just stood, his weight on one hip, scouring the dank meeting place with his dark eyes until he finally caught sight of her huddled by the window.

His face lip up and he approached quickly, his strong arms outspread. Reluctantly, she rose to greet him.

"Laura." He beamed, dragging her into a hug and pressing a kiss to her temple. She had always felt smothered in his embraces, so much larger was he. At barely 19, she was slight and delicate in comparison to his well-built and looming frame.  
>"Mi figlia," [My daughter] he cooed. Breaking apart, they both slid into the booth and took a moment to study each other.<p>

She shifted, winding her arms around herself tightly as if trying to keep from falling apart.

"Papa." She attempted a smile, but the result was more of a nervous grimace.

"I'm glad that you wanted to meet." He reached across the table and she grudgingly mimicked his movements and placed her tiny hands inside his.

"Papa." She repeated shakily. "I wanted to talk to you about something very important. I don't want us to fight anymore. I want to make amends."

"Mi figlia." He shook his head, stretching across the gap to place a finger over her pouting lips. "You don't have to say anything. The fact that you're here is enough for me. We'll go home; and forget all this mess." He gestured to their pitiful surroundings. "Forget all about _him_. Come home, bella."

She pulled her hands back, realising that he had made a grave mistake. In her message, she had said only that something had happened involving Max and she needed to talk. He had obviously misunderstood her motive for this meeting.

"No, I'm not coming home." She corrected him carefully. "I came to tell you that..."

"Laura?" He urged, his dark eyes pleading and unusually warm. She took a deep breath and straightened up in her seat, trying and failing to make herself feel bigger.

"I'm pregnant."

The word fell between them like a stone. For a long minute, he just stared.

"I'm going to have a baby, papa."

Finally, he lifted his gaze towards the ceiling and took a slow, deep breath; before bringing his fist down on the table in anger.

"Bastardo!" He snarled. "You let that man touch you!"

"Max is a good man, padre." She insisted, tears welling up in her eyes at the shock of his violent response. "He cares for me, and he'll care for the baby, too."

Without warning, she felt a sharp stinging on her face and recoiled at the slap.

"Battona." [Whore] He hissed acidly.

By now, people had noticed the fight brewing in the shadowy corner and begun to slink away. Nobody would interfere – no-one dared. Even in this slum-dog neighbourhood, everyone knew to be afraid of the name Angelo Valentino.

"I'll kill him." He growled in fury, already making to leave.

She stood up too, one hand still plastered to her face, and caught him by the sleeve.

"No!" She begged. "He's a good man. He's going to do right by me."

"I won't hear of it! You're coming home." He yanked her roughly out of the seat, but she resisted fiercely

"No!" Her dark eyes – so like his own – flashed with fear and rage. "No, you wouldn't do that. You wouldn't make an orphan of your grandchild – tuo nipote."

For the first time, his features softened. He took off his hat and dragged a hand through his long hair before replacing it.

"Oy." He exhaled, sinking back onto the worn leather. Cautiously, she followed suit and waited for his response. "Laura ... where are you going to raise this child?"

"Max has an apartment." She explained. "He's got a job; he's going to take care of us."

"As a grocery boy?" Angelo scoffed. "How?"

"We'll manage." She shrugged. "We've managed on our own so far."

She neglected to mention why they had managed – why they had had to manage.  
>Why, fed up with her constant rebellion, her own father had hit her so hard that she had run away at the tender age of eighteen, with a fractured wrist and a black eye for souvenirs.<p>

As it happened she didn't need to mention it; Angelo's sheepish expression seemed to suggest that her point had registered anyway. He nodded slowly, chewing contemplatively on the inside of his cheek.

"You swear this man will take care of you. Both of you?"

"Always." She nodded earnestly. "Papa, I want my child to know it's father _and _it's grandpa."

Slowly, she saw him start to melt and shrunk with relief.

"If it's a boy, I'll name him after you." She bargained playfully, dragging a smile from the temperamental old man.

"Oh, mi bella figlia." [My beautiful daughter] He sighed, dragging her around the booth into a hug and dropping a kiss into her silky hair. "Oy. What _have_ you gotten yourself into?"

* * *

><p><strong>December 18<strong>**th****, 1964 - - Wyatt Street, Las Vegas**

The sound of tiny feet greeted him at the door and he glanced down to find a little red-haired whirlwind scampering towards him.

"Muggs!" He grinned, scooping her up and swinging her easily onto his hip.

"Sam!" She snuggled against him for a hug, threading her tiny arms around his thick neck.

"How's my girl?" He asked, bouncing her gently and nuzzling against her thick wavy hair. The older she got, the more he could see her mother's features developing in her face.

"Sam." Another voice echoed in a clipped tone. Lily materialised out of the kitchen, drawn out by the commotion. Sam placed Catherine back on the floor and straightened up, offering a tentative smile.

"Hi Lil." He greeted hoarsely. When she continued to appraise him from a distance, he took a step towards her.

"Don't." She held up her hands, in which were clutched a pair of scissors and a roll of tape.

That was the first time he spotted the many stacks of plain cardboard boxes littering the small apartment. Without decoration, it seemed so sparse and depressing.

"You were really serious, huh?" He noted sorrowfully.

"I have to do this, Sam." She insisted, dropping unceremoniously onto the arm of a couch. He couldn't help but notice that she looked worn out, beads of sweat gathering on her ivory skin from the strenuous effort of packing up her life. "I can't stay here like this."

"I told you," he cleared the room in a couple of paces, crouching down by her side and gripping her hand before she could retreat. "I can give you anything you need. I'll make sure you never struggle."

"Oh yeah? And what about _her_?" She challenged, gesturing to the child; who continued to watch her parents with trepidation from the other end of the room.

"Catherine, too. She'll never want for anything."

"It's not that simple, Sam." Lily shook her head, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "Catherine and I, we need more than just idle promises."

"Hey," he pressed a finger to her chin and forced her to meet his eye. "I'll always look after you, that's not an idle promise."

She stood up, moving out of his reach, and began to pace. Her arms were wrapped around her stomach, holding herself together.

"So, come with us." She offered at last, a touch of hope behind the cold front.

"I can't." He snapped, refusing to get sucked into this argument again. "You know what's going down in New York – Valachi's little stunt has caused untold trouble for ... for everyone. The Feds could be moving here next. If I leave town, it could look like I've got something to hide."

"Do you?"

He deflected the question, training his blue eyes back on their baby daughter.

"Look at her." He sighed. "Can you really drag her away from her life here? Away from all she knows?"

Catherine was staring back at him in silence, dragging her tiny sock-covered foot across the chipped wooden floorboards.

"I don't know, Sam." Lily confessed. "I don't know what's the right thing to do. But I also don't think I can stay here. Not unless you're willing to give up certain things for us."

He acknowledged with a sigh that she wasn't taking about his marriage.

"You know the kind of work I do." He held out his hands. "You know who I work with."

She dropped her head. She already suspected where she stood in his priorities, and his response confirmed it. To tired to fight it, she accepted this fact with a sad nod.

"Why did you come here, Sam?" She asked quietly. "Go home to your wife."

"Not until you promise you're not leaving."

"I can't do that Sam." She pursed her lips, pressing her back against the bare wall behind her.

"I don't understand." He scowled, getting increasingly irritated by her refusal to give him a straight answer. "What's suddenly changed? Why can't we just carry on as before?"

"Because we can't!" She erupted, taking gasping breaths between each distressed word. "Because nothing's the same. I'm pregnant Sam! I'm pregnant!"

He stared at her, his eyes like saucers. He searched her body, as if he could deduce who the father was simply by looking close enough. He wanted to say something, to demand an explanation. But the words just wouldn't come; lost somewhere behind the bitter taste spreading through his mouth.

Finally, unable to say a thing, he spun on his designer Italian heels and strode back across the apartment.

"Sam!" Lily hollered after him, but he didn't stop until he reached the door.

While fumbling with the handle, he felt a small tug at his shirt and glanced down to see Catherine blinking up at him in confusion and sadness. Looking into her ocean blue eyes, he could almost see himself staring back; but even that wasn't enough to overcome his betrayal.

With a gentle push, he extracted the child from himself and left the apartment in silence. Despondent, the little girl watched the door slam shut through unshed tears.

Lily had sunk to the floor, where she now curled against the wall; heartfelt sobs wrenching their way from her heaving chest. She squeezed her eyes tight closed, trying to shut out the pain of his abandonment.

Somewhere above the sound of her own cries, she heard a soft sniffle and felt a weight against her shoulder. She lifted her head enough to see that Catherine had settled next to her and was attempting to crawl under her arm. Lily unfurled herself and lifted the five-year-old into her lap.

"Momma?" She questioned softly, nestling under her chin. "Where are we going to live?"

Lily sniffed, attempting to wipe away her tears; but with every swipe of her fingers, more quickly replaced them.

"I don't know, sweetheart." She pressed a kiss against her daughter's hair, pulling her as tight as she dared into the protective curve of her body. "But I'll think of something. We'll get through, somehow."

The God's honest truth was that she didn't know how they were going to get through. With a small child and another on the way, a showgirl's salary just wasn't going to cut it.

She was scared for herself, and for Catherine. Sam was right about one thing, Las Vegas could be about to get very dangerous for the likes of him. And if were to suddenly go away for a while, she would be totally lost – which is why she had to leave first.

She didn't know how she had gotten them into this mess, but her children were counting on her to get them out of it.


	8. July 5th - July 6th 2004

**July 5****th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break room**

"_The death of Nino Carmine has raised some serious questions about the mafia influence in this city."_ Rory Atwater declared, his sharp gaze swinging expertly from one camera to another. _"Las Vegas was built by the mob and that remains a valuable part of its history. But times have changed; and I am not going to stand by and allow them to take liberties in _my_ city."_

"Way to go, Sheriff." Warrick droned dolefully. "Give them a challenge, why don't you?"

"_As of today,"_ Atwater continued, puffing his chest out in his pristine jet-black suit; _"LVPD is waging war on organised crime in Las Vegas."_

"Turn it off." Catherine sighed into the table, her hands submerged in her stressed red locks.

Nick willingly obliged, snatching up the remote and silencing the pretentious speech. It would come as little surprise that Atwater had political ambitions, given the way he held the press in the palm of his hands.

"Fifteen minutes and not a single word about Sara." The Texan scoffed angrily, gesticulating to the TV with an angry flick of his wrist. "What the hell?"

"Forget it, Nicky." Cath pushed herself to her feet and sloped towards the coffee pot. It was only the beginning of shift and this was already her third cup. That was a bad sign in itself. "It wouldn't make a difference. Whoever has her is obviously flying under the radar. You saw the CCTV footage – black car, tinted windows, no licence plates..."

"Yeah, well I don't care." He spat sullenly. "Why the hell should we focus on some dead scumbag gangster when she's still missing?"

"We're not focusing on it." Warrick assured him. "We're going to find her. We just need to focus on the evidence."

"What evidence? We've got nothing!"

Launching the remote onto the bench, he whirled around and landed a kick squarely in the centre of the trashcan, booting it across the hallway in his frustration.

"Nick!" Warrick yelled, slamming his own drink down and taking a step towards his mate; but the younger CSI was already on his way out of the break room.

In the wake of his abrupt departure, Rick dropped heavily onto the couch and emitted a depressed groan.

Catherine, idly stirring her coffee with the wrong end of a spoon, continued to stare at the floor where the remote had come to a sliding halt after skittering across the table top. Finally, she placed the mug down untouched.

"I'm going back to her flat." She asserted. "Maybe we missed something."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Warrick asked gently. His concern for the assistant supervisor had been growing markedly with each passing hour that Sara was gone, but he knew better than to voice his worries to her.

"I don't know." She acknowledged, throwing her hands out to the sides. "But I can't just sit around here and watch Nick trash the place."

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas PD  
><strong>

Oblivious to the Sheriff's media frenzy taking place outside; Jim Brass' captive audience was silent and sombre as they all stared down at a photocopied image of an all too-familiar face.

"Sara Sidle has been missing for approximately thirty hours." The detective declared bluntly to a murmur of concern from the room full of uniformed men and women. "Her apartment showed signs of a break in, but there's no evidence that anything was taken, or that she actually made it past the threshold on the morning she disappeared."

One of the officers raised his hand.

"Does she have any known enemies?" He asked dutifully, knowing that someone had to breech the possibility and deciding that it may as well be him.

"CSI have checked her recent cases. Nothing stands out, but we're keeping an open mind."

"Any partners or ex-partners that might be involved?" Another cop chipped in. It was a well-known fact that most violent crimes were committed by people known to the victim. Sad, but true all the same.

"None that we know of." Jim shook his head, his mouth pressed tightly into a thin line.

It had been the first thing he'd checked, too; and he'd almost been grateful to discover that it was an unlikely scenario. Sara trusted so few people in her life – the thought that one of them could be responsible for hurting her made his blood boil.

"I want you all to be thorough. CCTV footage, traffic stops ... anything remotely suspicious, I want you to come to me first." He continued earnestly, to a round of consenting nods around the room.

"Where do you want me?" Officer Mitchell broke away from the crowd and straightened up. The stalwart cop had worked many scenes with Sara over the years; it figured that he'd want a prominent role in trying to locate her.

"Door-to-door." Brass instructed, handing him a pre-printed list of suspects to start with. Unlikely, yes; but it was somewhere to start. Turning his attention back to his team, he delivered a final message with unwavering sincerity, despite the distinctive tremor to his bottom lip.

"From this day onwards, we don't sleep until we've found her."

* * *

><p><strong>July 5<strong>**th/6th****, 2004 [Midnight] - - Sara Sidle's Apartment**

Glad of any opportunity to escape the brewing tension between Nick and Warrick, Greg had eagerly agreed to accompany Catherine on this expedition. However, now he was here he began to feel uneasy.

The last time CSI were at this scene they had focused their attention on the threshold and the hallway, since that was where all the action appeared to have occurred. The evidence suggested that the intruders hadn't even entered the apartment, beyond breaking the lock on the door.

There had also been a part of them that hadn't felt right rooting through their colleague's personal life; but they were running out of alternative options now. Today, they had to dig deeper.

Cath broke the garish yellow seal covering the door and stepped inside, taking a shuddering breath as she scrutinised the place.

It had initially surprised her that the brunette was still living in a studio flat. Granted, they were not on the highest wages in the department by any means; but that wasn't to say that they were destitute. Nick had a single-story two bedroom house; and even Warrick had walls between his kitchen and his bedroom.

Perhaps Sara just liked the small space, or the lack of other rooms to clean, she had mused. But it did give credence to the idea that she was struggling financially.

"I'm going to check her desk." She announced, moving past the faux-leather sofas to the far corner; where Sara appeared to have erected a miniature office space. With any luck she would find a bank statement or an invoice - something that might shed some light on why the girl was so desperate for money that she would call on her deadbeat brother for help.

She scanned the colourful multitude of files and folders adorning the shelf above the table, studying each hand-written label in turn. There was a distinctive gap between Accounts and Bills, but a quick search of the desk proved fruitless.  
>It did, however, lead her to locate an A5-sized ring-bound book with a standard flower design and delicate font daubed across the cover. It wasn't what she was looking for, but it was interesting.<p>

"I found her address book." She stated, flicking through it until she landed on 'S'. There was no Dylan, but all was not lost. "Seth Sidle."

"Who's that?" Greg inquired.

"I don't know." She pursed her lips. "The guy on the phone mentioned someone called Seth."

"Could be another brother." He hypothesised with a shrug.

"Yeah." She agreed quietly, placing it back on the edge of the desk.

So far they had put off contacting her family, but the longer Sara was missing the more pressing that duty became. And, knowing Grissom like she did, she had a horrible feeling that task was going to fall squarely into her hands.

She turned her attention back to the bookcase and briefly studied the titles.  
>Clearly, Sara had rather an eclectic taste in reading. And music, for that matter. Catherine had never even heard of half these artists.<br>She was going to have to widen her field a little.

On the shelf below was a large darkwood picture frame, bordering the faded image of a little girl with waist-length dark hair sat at a piano. Catherine smiled tearfully, dragging her thumb across the glass. Sara was a sullen little thing, even back then.  
>Replacing the frame carefully on the bookcase, she turned her attention to the rest of the apartment.<p>

Beside her, propped up against the yellow satin, floor-length drapes, sat a beautiful sea-green acoustic guitar. She strummed the strings once, letting the gentle wooden sound reverberate through her fingertips and into her body.

"Did you know that she played?" She asked of the lab tech.

"Guitar? Yeah, she mentioned it once." He nodded, swallowing hard around the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "She always said that she'd show me one day."

Cath turned, catching his sad gaze across the tiny flat.

"She will." It was a timid promise, but one that added an air of hope to the poignant mood. Greg nodded, turning away before the woman could catch sight of the tears welling up in his eyes.

Sensing that he needed a minute, she wandered over to the chest and began apathetically opening drawers at random. Trailing a hand across the neatly folded t-shirts, she settled on one and pulled it out. It was a long-sleeved mottled grey top that Cath vaguely recalled seeing her wear once or twice. Holding it up to her face, she inhaled the familiar scent of her friend and bit back a sob.

"Hey," Greg called, snapping her back to the room. She spun around to find him frowning at her, his head tipped to one side. "Do you hear that?"

She returned the garment to its home and listened too. It was faint, but she could definitely hear something.

"Scratching?" She scowled, examining the room for the source.

"There!" Greg pointed to the balcony. Outside, barely visible between the white sheer curtains, a tiny squirrel was clawing pitifully at the door. Before Catherine could warn him not to, Greg had slid the panel open and the little creature strutted inside, emitting a disgruntled chirrup at being kept waiting.

To their shock, he scampered straight across the room and onto the kitchen unit. When they continued to stare at him, he expertly knocked the lid off a ceramic pot and emitted an angry squeak.

Walking over, Greg peered inside to see what had the animal so worked up.

"Peanuts!" He exclaimed with surprise, lifting up the bag to show her. "Sara must have fed him."

"Of course she did." Catherine rolled her eyes, watching as the lab rat shook a couple of the treats onto the counter. The squirrel munched contentedly on them, before looking up expectantly for more. This time he placed them in his hand and grinned when the rodent happily ate from him, clutching his fingers with its own tiny claws.

Catherine reached out to stroke his furry little head tentatively with her fingertip.

"Well I'm sorry little guy, Sara's not here right now. But I promise we're doing everything we can to get her back."

He chirped and clicked, eyeing the strangers curiously for a second before launching himself onto the floor and sniffing around the sofa. Perhaps trying to deduce for himself where his regular owner was.

"I thought her building didn't allow pets." Greg noted with a hint of amusement.

"Yeah," Cath snorted derisively. "Like that would stop her."

As the creature scratched around the furniture, Greg spotted something propped up next to the couch leg and crouched down for a better look. Whatever it was must have slipped down there from the arm of the sofa, suggesting Sara had had it out recently.

"Hey Catherine," He enquired, extracting the item. "Is this what you were looking for?"

She accepted the folder, turning it over to read the label.

"Bank statements." She breathed. "Good find, Greg."

"Hey, it wasn't me." He grinned, nodding at their furry little companion pointedly. "I guess there's a reason she kept him around."

* * *

><p><strong>July 6<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Gil Grissom's office**

Grissom nearly left his seat in surprise as a sheaf of paperwork landed unceremoniously on his desk.

"Sara was paying nearly $900 a week to the same bank account." Catherine announced, placing her hands on her hips. Gil quirked an eyebrow in surprise, snatching up the stapled pile of statements to peruse.

"Do we know whose account this is?"

"Not yet, we only know it's not one of her own. Nick's looking into it now." She sank into a chair opposite him. "It does explain why she's struggling through. Her salary won't cover that as well as her rent and bills."

"No, not even close." He acknowledged sadly, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. It pained him to think that Sara had been going through tough times and he had been utterly oblivious to it.  
>"Catherine, did we miss something?" He asked weakly. "Was there some sign that she was in trouble, and I just didn't notice?"<p>

"Honestly Gil," she threw her head back towards the ceiling, her chest heaving. "I don't know. I've been trying to figure that out myself. But, looking at those bills, she's been paying nominal amounts into that account since she came to Vegas. Maybe we never noticed because she's always just got on with it until now."

"Maybe." He agreed uncertainly, casting his gaze over the numbers again until they all blurred into a checkerboard of illegible black and white blurs on the page. "Where is she, Cath?" He exhaled. "Who has her?"

"I don't know." She murmured, feeling the words catch in her throat. "We're going to find her though. We're not going to let anything happen to her."

He looked up, his haunted gaze burrowing through her skin and into her very soul. There had been a question playing on her mind ever since this hell started, that she hadn't dared admit out loud, or even in her head yet.  
>But Gil voiced it now, as if he could see the very words dancing behind the doubt in her eyes.<p>

"What if it already has?"


	9. July 7th - July 8th 2004

**Don't worry, they **_**are**_** going to catch a break ... in the next chapter :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 7<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room  
><strong>

"Sara has been paying _$875 _a _week_ into an unnamed bank account." Nick explained, to an incredulous gasp from Warrick. "But I can't get anyone at the bank to tell me who it belongs to, or even how long it's been open." The frustration in the Texan's voice was palpable as he slammed his fists onto the table top, causing the papers to flutter in indignation.

"Well, keep trying." Grissom urged. "That money could lead us to whoever has her."

A range of potential motives flashed silently through their collective mind: blackmail, drugs, gambling...but then they cast their eyes over the photo of their missing friend tacked to the wall; and those theories dissolved into the heavy air once again.

If Sara was being blackmailed, she would have told them. And she certainly wasn't the type to get mixed up in drugs or gambling. In any case, they would have surely noticed if something that troubling was going on in their co-worker's life.

Which ultimately brought them back to that gallingly incomprehensible question: why was Sara parting with so much money every week? And where the hell was she getting all this extra money from?

Gil turned his attention to Catherine, who until now had been lurking quietly by the door in the hopes that she would evade notice.

"Have you contacted her family yet?"

"No, that's my next job." She confessed sadly, her heart sinking at the very suggestion of it. "I've already tried calling Dylan, but he's not picking up. I'm going to try the number for Seth Sidle next."

"What about her parents?"

"There are no details for them in her address book or her personnel file." She shrugged. "Brass is trying to track them down now."

"Good. Let me know." Grissom checked his watch, already shuffling past his colleagues to the door. "I've got a meeting with the Sheriff to decide how to distribute our workload across the lab until we find her." He paused in the entrance, shaking his head slowly. "If we don't catch a break soon..."

The thought was left unfinished, but the message behind it was clear. Sara had been gone for four days. Time was running out.

Warrick turned to the strawberry-blonde, who had stepped towards the bench and now had her head clasped in her hands.

"You sure you don't want me to do this?" He offered, gesturing to the phone book sitting inoffensively in front of her.

"No, it's okay." She straightened up and sniffed, subtly catching an escaped tear on her sleeve before anyone else could glimpse a sight of it. "I'll do it. I _need_ to do it."

* * *

><p>Apparently the Sidle brothers – if that's indeed what they were – were not too dissimilar. She got the same automated voicemail message on Seth's phone as she had done on Dylan's.<br>This time, however, she took the opportunity to leave a message. She left her name and number and a short, simple request that he call her back urgently, after which she trailed off.

How do you tell a complete stranger that their sister is missing, let alone by doing so in a voicemail message?

Putting the phone down on top of Sara's address book, she stared at it for a long moment; considering her next move.

Sara's neighbours hadn't seen or heard anything on that fateful morning. The car believed to have taken her away was a dark, limo-style vehicle with blacked out windows and no licence plate – virtually untraceable despite all their infinite technology. There was no apparent motive, barely any physical evidence from the scene and her family were not answering their phones.

Whoever had her, they certainly knew how to cover their tracks.

"God Sara, where are you?" She asked of the vacant room, scanning the familiar surroundings through tear-glazed eyes. The lab felt different this week, like everyone was walking on eggshells. Even David Hodges, who normally required a horse tranquillizer just to shut him up, had barely said two words to the team.

Shaking away the depressing thoughts, her gaze shifted to the computer and she quickly made a decision about where to go , so the boys weren't answering their phones; but, there was more than one way to hunt them down.

Wiggling the mouse to wake up the screen, she hurriedly tapped in her password and opened every PD database she had access to. One way or another, she'd find something on these guys.

However, before she had the chance to type even one letter, a sharp knock drew her attention to the door.

"You tracked down Dylan and Seth Sidle yet?" Jim Brass asked, striding inside uninvited.

"Voicemail." She sighed, nodding hopefully at the folder in his hands. "You get something on her parents?"

"Oh, I got something alright." He agreed soberly, tossing it onto the table beside her. "And trust me, you'll get more straight answers out of Grissom's fetal pig then you will out of either of them."

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House**

The porch light was out. She couldn't help but wonder, as she sloped wearily up the driveway, how long it had been that way.

The team hadn't been home in days and if they'd gotten their own way, that pattern would have continued. But upon finding his guys all dead on their feet and hovering around the coffee pot like flies, Grissom had come to the decision that they all needed a few hours to recover and regroup. Although Catherine had sincere doubts that he would have taken his own advice.

She chucked her keys in the general direction of the table and sank onto the couch, her heavy eyes already starting to close beyond her control. It was only now, as she took the time to actually sit and breathe for a minute, that she felt the full force of her exhaustion. She could probably sleep for a full day, if only she could silence the voice of concern twittering incessantly in her head.

The sound of eager footsteps drew her eyes open again and she attempted a smile at her daughter.

"Hey, Lindsey." She greeted through a stifled a yawn.

"Are we going?" Lindsey asked, forgoing all courtesy. Cath was sure that she should know what the girl was referring to, but she didn't even have the energy to pretend right now. She pulled herself forward, attempting to look somewhat alert.

"Going where?"

"To the mall." Lindsey scowled. "You promised we could go at the weekend."

Catherine threw her head back, taking a deep breath. Was it the weekend already? She couldn't remember. She vaguely recalled making such a declaration, but it felt like a lifetime ago in light of everything that had happened.

"Oh, Lindsey honey." She sighed at last, reaching out a hand towards the eleven-year-old. "Maybe another day."

Lindsey scrunched her face up, wrenching her arm away in anger.

"Ugh, you're _so_ unbelievable!" She wailed. "You _promised_!"

"Hey, I have a lot going on right now." Cath snapped with the last waning ounce of strength she possessed. "I would appreciate a little understanding from you."

Lindsey continued to scowl, but wisely kept her mouth shut until she made it to the bottom of the stairs – well out of Catherine's reach.

"All you ever think about is work! It's so unfair!" She snarled, stomping up the steps as loud as her tiny dancer's feet could carry her. Cath watched her go, both saddened and astonished by the tantrum. She'd barely been home two minutes and already she was being ambushed.

She hadn't gone in to details with Lindsey about Sara's disappearance. Granted they had only met on a handful of occasions, but Lindsey appeared to like Sara and the last thing Catherine wanted to do was cause her child more unnecessary upset. Then again...

"She's feeling neglected." A calm voice pointed out unhelpfully, dragging a tired groan from the CSI.

"Not now mom, please." She begged, scrunching her eyes tight closed.

Lily moved around the couch, brushing an unstable stack of magazines to one side so she could perch on the coffee table.

"Any luck with Sara yet?" She asked sympathetically, studying her eldest child's features for some sign of hope.

"No." Catherine sighed, clawing her hands through her hair. "We don't even know where to begin looking for her. I've been trying to contact her family, but that's looking like a dead end, too."

"Well, just don't forget about _your_ family. Lindsey's still your first priority, Catherine." The mother chastised. "I know you're stressed, but you have a responsibility to her."

Cath looked up, her jaw set in barely concealed irritation.

"What about my responsibility to Sara?" She challenged. "She's my family, too."

"Not really." Lily pulled a face. "I mean, I know you're close to your team. But she's not _your_ responsibility personally."

With surprising ease given her current energy levels, Catherine heaved herself up and threw her hands out defensively. However, the words she was trying to find just wouldn't come and she had to settle for a strangled whimper.

"Mom ... I can't deal with this right now." She offered instead. "I'm going for a shower, and then I'm going back to the lab."

"You can't keep doing this, Catherine." Lily hollered after her retreating form. "Even _you_ need a break sometime."

However, her pleas went unheard and she was left to stare at the now-vacated spot on the sofa despondently.

"Well," she sighed to the empty living room. "I'll make you something to eat then."

* * *

><p>Catherine stepped out of the shower, her tender skin still stinging from the water, and wrapped herself into a fluffy gown.<p>

Slipping back into the bedroom, she sank onto the bed and rolled her tense shoulders. She had hoped that a hot shower might help focus her mind and burn away the discomfort of that conversation with her mom, but it had failed on both counts.

Of course she felt bad for neglecting Lindsey, but Sara had to be her priority right now. Especially since today's developments would suggest that the brunette didn't have anyone else to call her family.

Beside her sat the folder Jim had provided earlier. She had only managed to skim read the details before Gil ordered them all to go home, but even that had been enough to give her an idea of what Sara's upbringing must have been like.

Perhaps it was better on all counts if her parents weren't a part of their daughter's life anymore.

Knowing that she should leave it be for now and get some rest; and also knowing that that would never happen, she snatched up the report and turned to the first page.

Turns out she had been right about Dylan and Seth – they were Sara's brothers. And that was where the similarities with the siblings ended. Where Sara had become successful and independent, Dylan was a nomad 'of no fixed abode' and Seth was an ex-juvie resident currently living in a trailer in Texas.

And little wonder, when you looked at the example set to them by their parents. Max Sidle was a violent alcoholic, murdered by Laura during a frenzied schizophrenic attack one dark night when Sara was still in elementary school.

Having been placed into care at the tender age of nine – two years younger than Catherine's own little girl was now – Sara was faced with a lifetime of looking after the mentally ill woman who had so carelessly robbed her of a childhood.

Cath paused, her exhausted mind slowly starting to put the pieces together. Laura had been released from prison in 1996 after two lengthy appeals, on the grounds that she spends the rest of her life in residential care.

Care homes cost money. About $875 a week, at a guess.


	10. December 4th 1982

**Thanks for your patience guys, had a weekend away. **

* * *

><p><strong>December 4<strong>**th****, 1982 - - Sidle's B&B, Tomales Bay, California **

All had gone very quiet.

She poked her head around the doorframe, peering into the darkness that seemed almost to swirl in the hallway. Everything was still – unsettlingly so.

Her tiny feet padded across the matted carpet, the knots and twists of the shag digging into her tender skin. She was holding her breath, lest she should make even the smallest sound and unleash hell all over again; yet she could hear every flutter of her heart pounding in her ears like the beating of a Biko drum.

At the entrance to her parent's bedroom, she paused. She could already smell it – coppery, metallic waves emanating from behind the slatted louvre door. The noise from this room not fifteen minutes ago had been like something from the horror films her brothers watched – shrieks of terror and anger ricocheting throughout the rickety timber house.

Now, there was just silence.

She slid through the thin crack into the room. Her father was on the bed; naked, unmoving and sprawled inelegantly across the blood-soaked mattress. His arm was hanging off the edge, a trail of blood dripping rhythmically from the tip of his finger into a pool of thick, dark liquid slowly spreading across the dirty wooden floorboards.

Sara's whole body began to tremble as her frightened eyes scanned the faded walls, splattered with angry red drops. Some of them had been there for a long time, some were fresh and still creeping down the paint like spilled secrets.

"Daddy?" She called out meekly, trying to peer at his face without breaching her safe distance from the bed.

A stifled cry drew the child's attention to her left, where Laura was curled against the dresser, sobbing hysterically into her hands. On the floor beside her lay a sharp and bloodstained knife. It had a distinctive redwood handle, complete with a lifetime of chips and dents, and was instantly recognizable as the ones from their kitchen drawer.

Sara moved towards her mom, when she was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. She looked up to find her big brother shaking his head at her.

"Dyl?" She questioned softly, a mix of surprise and hope flooding her naive features.

His only answer was to crouch down and scoop her up, carrying her out of the room without a word.

The last thing she saw was her father's motionless, blue-tinted body lying in the hot blood that continued to seep from his veins, before she was replaced on the floor in her own bedroom.

"Dylan?" She cried out powerlessly, trying to follow him; but he shoved her forcefully backwards and slammed the door on his way out.

Even then, she knew better than to go back out there.  
>So, she sat on the cold floor with her knees pulled protectively up to her chest; and she waited, as she had so many times before, for a hero to come and rescue her like the princesses in her treasured novels.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

Sara awoke with a start, the distant murmur of the nightmare still on her lips as she jolted upright; her instinctive attempts to pull away restricted by the heavy rusted chains slicing into her slender arms.

Before she could gather her bearings, a coarse hand had cupped her cheek firmly to still her sudden movements and she found herself blinking at a grizzled face hovering mere inches from her own. He was scowling, studying her features as if she were some exotic creature.

"Lei e sveglio." [_She's awake_] He declared, and for the first time she realised that this was a different man to the one she was used to.  
><em>He<em> was still perched on his chair, also peering at her curiously through the cloud of smoke he seemed permanently encased in.

"Buona." [_Good_] He stated gruffly, sitting back and crossing one leg over the other.

The younger man crouched in front of her, evidently satisfied that she was going to be okay, stood up and walked out.

She must have passed out again; her head felt thick and foggy and her attempts to shake it off only made the room spin even more.

Throwing her whole frame back against the chipped wall, she sucked in several deep breaths of the suffocatingly thin air and tried to calm her already-shot nerves.

What time was it?

A quick glance at the cracks in the shoddy window-covering revealed a glimmer of sunlight. It was daytime; the stifling heat suggested around noon.

Not that that clarified much. She could have been unconscious for an hour or for a day; time was immaterial in this hell.

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Hallway  
><strong>  
>She had been wrong, the boss <em>had<em> gone home. Although she'd bet any money that he wasn't sleeping.

Waiting for him to return was not an option given the time pressure on this case, so she had gone in search of someone else to help.  
>And - apparently the only one of the team not to take Gil's advice - she had located Greg Sanders in one of the offices; desperately searching the internet for anything that might be of use.<p>

He wasn't really who she was looking for, but he would have to do. And judging by his sudden energy boost as he hollered her name down the hallway, that had not been an error in judgement.

"I got that information you wanted." He gushed, catching her up and falling easily into step with her. "The bank account Sara was paying that money into was a trust fund set up by a Margot Valentino."

"Okay." Catherine frowned, trying and failing to place the name. When it became apparent that the information meant very little to her, Greg offered a printout for clarification.

"She's Laura Sidle's mother."

Catherine took the piece of paper and studied the new details Greg had managed to unearth through heavy, narrowed eyes.

"Right. And Margot set up the fund in 1983 – the same year Laura was tried for Max's murder."

"I'm guessing she set it up to pay for the legal fees; and after the appeal came through she used the rest of money to pay for residential care." Greg hypothesised with a shrug.

"Do you have a number for Margot Valentino?" Cath asked, sidestepping the fact that the inexperienced CSI-wannabe had probably just hit the target with that blase theory.

"No, she died in 2000. And all of her remaining assets after her death went into the fund."

"That must have been when Sara took over control of it."

"Yeah, but get this." He handed her a second document, detailing all the payments made into and out of the trust since the year 2000. "Margot's money dried up last year. Which is right around the time Sara started paying almost $900 into the account every week."

"So, grandma's money runs out and Sara's left to fund her mother's care herself." Catherine sighed sadly. "Explains why she was asking her brothers for help. She must have been going through money like it was oxygen."

"And they slammed the phone down on her." Greg huffed. "Surely they must owe her for thousands by now." He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned face the blonde, his rich chocolate eyes filled with something akin to bewilderment. "Did you have any idea about her mother?"

"No, not a clue." She choked out, clawing a hand over her face. "I wish she'd told me. Maybe we could have helped her, rather than her having to struggle on her own."

"Well, once we find her we can make sure she doesn't have to struggle anymore."

Catherine smiled at the innocent hope in his voice, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah Greggy," she pursed her lips, laying a comforting hand on his arm and squeezing it tightly. "We will."

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

"Come si fa a sapere il mio nonno era li?" _[How do you know my grandfather was there?]_

The question came out of the blue and her bodyguard raised an eyebrow at it, surprised by the sudden attempt at conversation from his captive. When he continued to stare at her, she assumed she must have gotten the words wrong and tried again.

"Nel corso della riunione prima della morte del padre – come si fa a sapere il mio nonno era li?" _[At the meeting before your father was killed – how do you know my grandfather was there?]_

"So." [_I know_] He assured her brusquely.

"E Nino?" [_And Nino?_] She added. "Perche ucciderlo se non conoscete chi ha ucciso tuo padre? E' stato un grosso rischio." _[Why kill him if you didn't know who killed your father? It was a big risk.]_

He choked out a bitter laugh, taking a long drag on his cigarette and sitting forward. If the bombardment of questions bothered him, his expression never showed it.

"Non volevo." _[I didn't want to.]_ He assured her. "Non abbiamo mai pianificato in questo modo." _[We never planned it that way]_  
>Exhaling slowly, he breathed a cloud of smoke over her, but in her chained position she could only turn her head away from it. "Ma a volte in questo modo le carte cadono." <em>[But sometimes that's the way the cards fall]<em>

"Perche?" _[Why?] _She queried hoarsely, shifting her weight and wincing at the shot of pain that ran through her wrists. "Perche non si dice nulla?" _[Why didn't you say anything?]_

He emitted a dark chuckle and sat forwards, the smell of stale smoke and whiskey washing over her.

"Perche..." _[Because...]_ he answered cryptically, coughing out a sigh. "Perche non e come il gioco viene giocato." _[Because that's not how the game is played]_

Settled that his cryptic response had answered her question; he snuffed out his cigarette on a singed patch of the wall, lit up another and sat back in his chair as they tumbled into yet another chasm of deafening silence.

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room  
><strong>

"Damn." Warrick groaned. He didn't look any better off for the brief period of respite, but then neither did anyone else. "How come we never knew about this?"

"Sara's a private person." Cath shrugged helplessly. "I guess she thought it was none of our business."

"Yeah, well it is now." Nick asserted. "You know, there's no way I'd let one of my sisters deal with something this huge by herself. These lowlifes have got a lot to answer for."

"Well when we find them, you can tell them that in person." Grissom pointed out testily. If his sullen mood and drooping eyelids were anything to go by, his visit home hadn't been worth much either.

"What about this grandmother?" Warrick inquired, his green eyes scanning the new notes that had been added to the wall in his absence. "Where's the grandfather – Laura's father?"

"Greg's trying to work up a family tree." Cath explained nodding in the general direction of the computer labs. "He's been at it for a couple of hours, he might have found something by now."

"I'll go give him a hand." The dark-skinned CSI declared. "Maybe _granddad_ knows where these damn brothers are."

On his way out, he crossed paths with a poker-faced Jim Brass, who proffered only a blunt nod in greeting.

"I've got something you guys are going to want to see." He announced to the remaining CSIs. "When we did the door-to-door, a couple of Sara's neighbours weren't around. One of them," he cast a hurried glance at his notebook, "a Todd Jamison, got in a bar fight in Reno on Monday and has been in a jail cell all week. He got out on bail this morning and came home to find crime scene tape on his neighbour's door."

"Well if he was in Reno, what can he tell us?" Nick shrugged. "He can't have seen anything that happened."

"He didn't. But this might have." The detective held up a small videotape between his thumb and forefinger. "Apparently someone kept stealing his parcels, so he rigged up a spy camera to the peephole to try and catch the thief. When he heard what happened to Sara, he thought he'd _volunteer _it; in exchange for leniency when his own case comes to trial."

"I'll get this to Archie." Nick lunched forward and snatched the tape out of his hand, glad of some actual tangible evidence at last.

"What about this Jamieson guy?" Gil pressed. "Did he have anything else to say?"

"Only that Sara was a quiet resident, kept to herself. He _claims_ she let him use her parking spot while she was at work, so his 'friends' could come round."

"What kind of parcels is he getting delivered that are so valuable, I wonder." Cath mused, catching his drift. Brass shrugged, indicating that he didn't really care enough to find out, and picked up a folder that was sitting on the bench.

"Any joy on the bank accounts?" He asked, flicking through the paperwork idly.

"We're starting to get somewhere." Catherine nodded. "I called the care home in California where Laura is and they confirmed that the only contact they've had with Laura's family was through Margot and Sara. Supports the idea that the boys aren't interested."

"Yeah, well that's my next move." Jim puffed his chest out, placing both hands flat on the bench. "I've got police in California and Texas trying to track them down right now. They might not give two cents about their mother, but they're damn well _going_ to care about their sister."

* * *

><p><strong>July 8<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

"Il bagno?" _[Bathroom?]_

He heaved himself out of the chair and in one swift movement released her chains from the radiator. She shook the restraints off, glad of even the tiniest reprieve from the aching pain they caused.

However, before she could revel in the feeling, a firm hand had gripped her arm and hoisted her up. Her legs were shaky from lack of movement and her head span as the blood rushed to her feet, but she was given little time to dwell on it as he frogmarched her across the creaky floorboards.

The corridor was dark, much like the rest of the property, but she had walked this path enough times since her arrival that she knew now to watch for the random hump in the middle of the narrow hall.

She was pushed into a space barely bigger than a cupboard, where a solitary light bulb flickered ominously above her.

"Cinque minuti." _[Five minutes.]_ He declared gruffly, slamming the door shut.

She stared around herself for a few seconds, letting her eyes adjust.

She had debated kicking the bathroom window in and making a break for it, but quickly discarded the notion. It was so filthy; she couldn't see what was out there. For all she knew, she could jump out and land straight on an armed guard.  
>And as much as she hated this torturous punishment, she realised that it was in her best interests not to piss these people off too much.<p>

At least they were allowing her some small human rights, even if it was only water and bathroom breaks. They obviously wanted to keep her alive for something.

She manoeuvred herself around the tiny room to turn sideways, attempting to examine her head injury in the stained and cracked mirror. It was bruised and clotted with blood. Her earlier efforts to clean it had resulted in nothing more than a lot of pain and profuse bleeding, so she elected to leave it be for now and pray that it wouldn't get infected.

She just had to hope that her team would find her in time - before her captors' necessity for her life expired.


	11. July 9th 2004

**I have a relative in hospital and it all got a bit hairy this week, so you'll have to forgive me for the delay in getting this up. I hope it was worth the wait :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 9<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, AV Lab**

"This guy was no Francis Ford Coppola." Archie bemoaned. His attempts to improve the focus of the blurry video had yielded little result and they were left with the hellish task of identifying each indistinct figure that had sloped past Mr Jamison's door on the fateful morning of July 4th.

"Yeah, well this might be our only way to identify who has her; so do your best." Nick practically pleaded, propping his heavy head up on the back of his companion's chair. It was true, unless something else came along to break the case, this video could be their only hope.

Resigning himself to the fact that it was as clear as it was going to get, Archie tapped a few keys and hit play. Brass had only provided the tape from the day Sara went missing, so now it was just a case of narrowing down the time frame and locating their friend.

"I talked to some of her neighbours that day, so we should be able rule them out." Nick glanced down at his notes, trying pitifully to recall the faces of all the people he had spoken to. He had been so stressed out; he'd barely registered anything beyond his own internal panic.

As the tape whirred on in mute, their skilled eyes twitched with each movement. Any one of the sketchy characters bumbling past the camera could be a potential kidnapper, as far as they were concerned.  
>Clearly, some of Sara's neighbours were living on the opposite side of the law to her. There was the guy indolently smoking a joint in broad daylight, the couple having a public domestic at the crack of dawn. And not forgetting the young arsonist setting fire to the industrial trash cans in the lot across the street.<p>

No wonder Sara never went home. It must be akin to living in a minimum-security rehab centre.

Archie bit back a chuckle as two teenagers scuttled into view, glancing around anxiously, before one of them stooped down and snatched up a package from Todd Jamison's doorstep.

"Well, there's his thief." He noted with a hint of amusement. "Or thieves. I wonder why he doesn't just get a PO box or something for his 'deliveries'."

"Wait, pause it on that guy." Nick barked, ignoring the tech's rambling and peering closer at the screen. "Is that a rifle?"

The guy who had just strode into view was tall, sharp-suited with dark hair and a beard to match. There was something long and unsettlingly recognisable slung over his left shoulder and he was walking calmly and purposefully in the direction of Sara's flat.

"Yeah, looks like it." Archie noted the time down in his notes and carried on playing the tape.

"There." Nick slapped him on the shoulder after a few minutes and Archie paused it a second time.

It was fuzzy, but frozen on the screen was a dark haired woman in jeans and a knee-length black coat, wrapped tightly around her despite the glaring sun she was walking into.

"That's her." He smacked his mate again, oblivious to the bruises he could be causing. "That's her, that's Sara."

For a moment, the two of them just stared at the grainy image with a heavy heart. Though it was hard to be sure, she appeared relaxed; certainly in no hurry. Wherever her attacker was, he was still out of sight at this point.

With a sad sigh, Archie continued the recording. Less than two minutes later, he hit pause for a final time.

"Damn." Nick ground out from between his clenched teeth.

In spite of the terrible resolution, they could clearly make out the man with the rifle. He was heading the opposite way, back towards the stairs, but this time he wasn't alone. Cradled in his arms, seemingly unconscious, was the same dark-haired woman bearing a striking resemblance to their missing colleague.

"Damn!" The Texan repeated, slamming his fist onto the table in fury.

Drawn by the commotion, Gil Grissom materialised in the doorway.

"You find something?" He asked hopefully, his gaze already seeking out the image fixed on the screen. His face fell in despair at the sight.

"Yeah, we found her." Nick breathed. "One guy, with a gun."

"None of her neighbours reported hearing a gun shot." Grissom pointed out, trying to ignore the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach at the picture of Sara's limp body being so callously stolen away. "So, used for complacency?"

"Or he hit her with it." Archie theorised. "She looks out of it and you guys did find blood in the doorway, right?"

"Arch, clear his face up as much as you can and get it to Brass." Grissom ordered, bypassing the comment completely. "The sooner we identify _him_, the faster we find _her_."

"Yes sir." The young man obliged, taking as many screenshots of the man with the gun as he could and lining them up side-by-side to pick the clearest.

"Nick." Grissom swung his attention to the Texan, an instruction waiting on the tip of his tongue; but Nick already had his cell phone out and was in the middle of dialing.

"Yeah, I'll get the description out to dispatch." He guessed. "If he's still in Vegas, we'll find him."

* * *

><p><strong>July 9<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room**

"You will never guess who Sara's grandfather is." Warrick gushed, tossing a printed black and white photograph onto the table. "Angelo Valentino."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Catherine frowned, picking up the image and squinting at it. It showed a tall, sturdy man in a jet-black suit, a fedora hat prominently sat atop a mass of shoulder-length brunette waves and a cigar hanging between his pouting lips.

Warrick scoffed in surprise at her ignorance and turned to Greg. The young lab rat was practically bouncing off the walls at this new discovery.

"Angelo Valentino is a Made Man from New York." He explained, producing a book on Vegas history and planting it on the table as if it held all the answers to their mystery. "He disappeared from the scene about thirty years ago, right around the time of the mafia commission trials that sent a lot of the mob underground."

"Okay." Catherine nodded, catching Gil's eye in joint confusion. "How does this help us find Sara?"

Warrick stepped up again, calmer this time, and locked eyes with the woman.

"You remember I said that Nino Carmine was suspected of killing Joseph Acerbi on New Year's Eve, 1958?" He pursed his lips, tapping the photo lying between them. "Another key suspect in the murder was Angelo Valentino. And, Nino left the limelight right around the same time that Angelo did."

There was a moment of silence as the significance of this sank in.

"So, Nino Carmine and Angelo Valentino were both suspected of killing a mafia boss in 1958." Cath frowned, trying to organise the rush of jumbled thoughts flooding her brain. "And forty six years later, Nino winds up murdered and Angelo's granddaughter is kidnapped all in the same week."

"Well, that can't be a coincidence." Gil noted. He had not been officially working Nino Carmine's death, and due to Sara's disappearance he hadn't had chance to catch up on Warrick's notes yet. "Did you have a suspect in mind for Nino's murder?"

"No, it was looking like a dead end case." Warrick shrugged. Until now, he hadn't given the dead mobster lying in the morgue a second thought. "I'll go back over the evidence and see if we missed anything."

"Well before you do, take a look at this." Greg jumped in, returning their attention to the book he had brought and swinging it open to a specific page. In the centre was a large photo of Tony Accardo – the man who had taken over from Al Capone after the latter's legendary capture and imprisonment for tax evasion.  
>"Back in the late fifties, when things were getting a bit too hot for some of the gangsters in Vegas, there was a plot to take out Accardo and usurp control of the Chicago Outfit. Joey Acerbi was the main orchestrator and he was believed to have met with three other gangsters to plot the assassination. Angelo Valentino and Nino Carmine were the hot suspects." He lifted a finger to his temple and mimed pulling a trigger. "A few months later, Joey gets a cap in the head in Times Square."<p>

"Who was the third man at the meeting?" Grissom urged. He was beginning to lose patience with Greg's excitable babbling; but as was often the case, it was the only way they could get answers from him. It was like a rite of passage they had to go through before receiving the enlightenment that Greg's results usually provided.

"Nobody knows for sure." He shrugged. "But according to the rumours at the time, Joey had a lot of friends in Vegas; including ..." he trailed off, shooting Catherine a lingering look.

* * *

><p><strong>July 9<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House**

"Why didn't you marry Sam?"

Lily jumped, taken aback by the question, or the harshness with which it was delivered.

"Catherine?" She asked, putting down her cup of tea and rising instantly from the chair. Catherine looked almost shell-shocked, her deathly white complexion only enhanced by the darkness behind her as she stood framed in the kitchen doorway. Lily moved towards her, her arms outstretched in concern; but Cath stepped away, slinking back into the shadows of the lounge.

"Was it because he was married – or because you knew he was a murderer?" She continued.

"Catherine?" Lily came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room, stunned into immobility. "What are you talking about? What's wrong?"

"New Year's Eve, 1958. Joseph Acerbi." Catherine enunciated slowly, pressing her pale lips into a tight line. "Did Sam kill him?"

"No!" Lily gasped. "Why on earth would you ask me that?"

"Because somebody did." She spat. "And that's why Sara's missing, because someone's taking revenge for his death."

"Sam wouldn't do that, Catherine." Lily promised, her tight red perm trembling as she shook her head in bewilderment. "He's not a murderer."

"Yes, he is." The younger woman countered with a painful bluntness that caused her mother to flinch. "He killed Vivian Verona and he might have killed Joseph Acerbi. And if he did, then it's not just Sara who's in danger."

The idea that Sam's actions could put her and her family in danger was a threat Catherine had long been trying to ignore. But now the risk felt very real and she couldn't pretend it was just some old-school Vegas fairytale anymore. This was her life; and the longer Sara was missing, the more danger she was in.

"He's your father." Lily stepped up to her, a desperately earnest look in her powder-blue eyes. "And believe it or not Catherine, he does care about you. He would never let anything happen to you."

The disparaging scoff she got in response said it all.

"Catherine, what's going on?" Lily begged, reaching out a hand to grip her daughter's wrist. "Have you found something about Sara?"

"Yes, we have." The CSI snarled, pulling away violently and heading back to the front door. "And Sam's up to his neck in it!"

Lily's attempts to call her back fell into the gaping space between them and she was left alone to watch in dismay as her eldest child vanished as hastily as she had arrived.  
>Slowly, Lily lowered herself back on to her seat at the kitchen table and stared morosely into the milky liquid swirling in her mug.<p>

She knew that Sam was no angel, she wasn't completely naive. But she also knew that he wasn't a monster – if he held information about a missing woman, a friend of Catherine's no less – he wouldn't keep it to himself. After all, he was a father too.

Sometimes, she wished that Catherine could remember the first time she had met Sam. If she saw him then, fussing over his little daughter with the excitement and affection befitting any first-time dad, she would see what Lily saw in him.

Surely, that man, that doting father, could not have killed with the same hands he used to cradle that innocent baby so tenderly.

* * *

><p><strong>March 26<strong>**th****, 1959 - - Sunrise Hospital Maternity Ward**

Sam pushed the door open and crept inside, the over-sized bouquet clutched in his hands brushing against the frame as he slid through the gap. The room, like every other on this ward, was small and compact with the bare essentials required for a new mother. Everything was white and gleaming, except for the beautiful woman laid centre stage in the railed bed.

Lily was asleep, her head turned towards him and her flame-red hair splayed across the pillow in an elegant arc. Shuffling his leather shoes across the tiled floor, he placed the flowers gently on the bedside table and leant down to drop a kiss onto her rose-tinted cheek.

It was only when he straightened up that he saw it; on the other side of the bed, angled away from him.

He had stood for an age in front of the window, admiring the many tiny babies in their cots with their little numbered bracelets; studying each one intently for something recognisable, to try and discern which one was his. But, evidently, it had been an effort in futility.

Tiptoeing around the base of the bed, he leant over the bassinet and a large smile graced his features as the baby's eyes blinked open. Blue, just like his own.

He stooped down and picked her up, trailing the soft cream blanket along too. She felt firm and heavy in his hands, more so than he had expected. But she looked delicate, with a tiny upturned nose, a pouting pink mouth and narrowed searching eyes. Already, she seemed to be scrutinising him.  
>Tiny fingers reached out towards his face and he let them brush his lips, placing a kiss into her palm.<p>

"Hello, my little girl." He cooed, drawing a squeak from the baby.

Moving back to the bed with the precious load cradled in his arms, he perched carefully on the edge – mindful not to disturb Lily.

"One day, you're going to rule this town." He told the baby proudly, letting his wide hand brush the tufts of red hair already adorning her head. "You're going to call all the shots. And don't worry about anyone giving you grief, because if they do you just send them my way." He promised her with a determined frown. "I won't let anyone lay a finger on you."

Hoisting her up, he supported her heavy head with one hand and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"My little girl. My daughter." He breathed, inhaling the sweet scent that is distinctly purity and newness.

"Catherine."  
>Sam turned to the pillows, where Lily remained the picture of peaceful slumber as she spoke, her voice vacant and thick with sleep. "Her name's Catherine."<p> 


	12. July 9th - July 10th 2004

**July 9****th****, 2004 - - Tangiers Casino**

Sam's henchmen came to a sudden halt, realising that their charge was no longer with them.

Sam had stopped in the middle of the hall and was watching in silent surprise as a recognizable figure barrelled her way through the jovial crowd towards him; waves of anger rolling off her like John Carpenter's Fog.

She caught sight of him staring and quickened her pace, practically throwing people out of her path with a single glare.

"You knew!" She snarled, not coming to a stop until she was barely an inch away from him; where she began beating her fists against his chest in a frantic fit of rage. "You knew that she was missing; you knew that and you still didn't say anything!"

Sam's aides watched on in shock as their boss stood there and took the violent abuse from this diminutive woman without so much as flinching. Even though he massively overshadowed her, the punches still had to hurt; but he showed no sign of it in his stoic features.

Eventually, when the spirited attack become too much for Catherine to sustain, he gripped her balled hands firmly against his chest and waited for her to meet his eye through the river of tears streaking down her flushed cheeks.

"Come inside." He gestured calmly towards his office. "I can explain."

* * *

><p>"You're being blackmailed?" She had refused the offer to sit down, electing instead to pace her way around the large office like an animal wrenched from the wild and encased in cage. "By who?"<p>

"I don't know." He insisted. "All I know is they want $250,000 by the end of next week or I'm going to find myself joining Nino in your coroner's freezer."

He managed to sound oddly unperturbed about that threat, but deep down his stomach had been turning somersaults for days. Not that Catherine cared about the wretched state of his intestines right now.

She turned away, muttering something under her breath that he decided he'd rather not hear anyway.

"Catherine, I swear I don't know anything about your missing friend." He promised, following her anxious movements with sympathetic eyes. "If I did, I would tell you."

"Where do they want the money dropping off?"

"They haven't said yet. I had an anonymous note left for me at reception." He produced a neatly folded piece of paper from his top pocket and offered it to her. "I'm expecting another anytime."

Snatching a tissue from the box on his desk, she accepted the note between her thumb and forefinger and delicately peeled it open. True to his word, there was just a demand for the money with further instructions to follow. Careful not to damage any potential fingerprints, she wrapped the note inside the tissue and pocketed it.

"When you get the second one, I want to know." She demanded. "Whoever is after you, they have Sara as well. So, you'd better think long and hard about who might want you dead."

"Catherine," he chuckled, shaking his head. "Half this town have been baying for my blood for the last thirty years. Why do you think I keep a gun in my bathroom cabinet?"

Catherine did not find the anecdote remotely funny and the sound of Sam's callous laughter only served to heighten her fury. She raised a hand as if to slap him; but instead swept the decorative lamp off the corner of his desk and watched it shatter. Shards of coloured glass winked at them from the rug, the whispers of a thousand secrets spilled free and glinting under the overhead lights. It had been a gift from Lily; and Cath knew it.

"I am warning you now, if _anything_ happens to Sara I will blame you."

Spinning on her heel, she made to leave before she became tempted to break anything else; her tangled golden waves bouncing with every angry stride she took across the spacious room. Sam stood up too, watching her stalk away from him.

"It's a dirty world we live in Muggs," he called out, though the plea fell on deaf ears. "You can't hold me responsible for everything that happens in it."

Sinking back into his chair, he stared at the smashed lamp. It could be replaced, of course; but he couldn't help feeling as though it was more than just broken glass lying in a million pieces at his feet.

* * *

><p><strong>July 9<strong>**th****, 2004 - - CSI, Layout Room**

"I don't get it." Nick moped. "I mean, why take Sara? Why not one of the boys, or Laura even?"

"Sara was the easy target." Warrick pointed out. "Laura's in a secure hospital; and look how hard it's been for us to track down the boys. Sara lives alone, she works unsociable hours. They could get in, grab her and get out without ever being seen."

"Yeah, but they had to know that taking a CSI was going to bring them a lot of heat." The Texan continued, his bewilderment at the situation evident in his increasingly high-pitched voice. "Surely it would be easier to just kill Angelo Valentino."

"If they can find him." Warrick added.

"Hey, guys." Greg interrupted their frustrated little têtê-à-têtê, spinning around on his computer chair to face them. "Is it just me, or are we looking at this all wrong?"

"What do you mean?" Warrick asked, abandoning Nicky at the centre bench and loping towards the young tech.

"Well, if whoever has Sara did take her in revenge for Joey Acerbi's murder, surely we should be looking at _his_ family, not hers."

There was a long moment as Warrick and Nick shared a lingering look across the room. Despite all their combined wealth of knowledge, leave it to the naive newbie to make the jump of logic.

And though neither said it out loud, they couldn't help but think that had Sara been here, she would have been the one to make such a suggestion.

"Yeah. Yeah, good call." Nick cleared his throat. "I'll start to work up a family tree."

"I'll check my book." Greg added, glad that his idea hadn't been disregarded offhand. "I'm sure it said something about Acerbi having a son – if we can track him down..."

The comment was cut off by the untimely arrival of a solemn Jim Brass.

"Whatever you're about to do, it can wait." He declared gravely. "Police in California picked up Dylan Sidle. He's on his way here."

* * *

><p><strong>July 10<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department**

The double-doors opened and a middle-aged man donning a scruffy beard and black eye was frogmarched roughly down the wide corridor, flanked by four uniformed officers. The team watched on in silence, taking in his appearance. He was wearing tattered jeans, a long-sleeved checked shirt hanging open over a black Guns-'n'-Roses t-shirt and heavy work boots that he dragged wearily across the floor.

With his dirty-blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes, he looked nothing like Sara.

He caught them staring and returned the gesture, holding each gaze in turn for as long as he could before Officer Mitchell thrust him into the nearest interrogation room with a ruthless shove.

The team exchanged a look that fell somewhere between relief and apprehension, nobody wanting to be the first to speak. The boys took a step closer in order to get a better look at their friend's elusive sibling while he was being forcefully situated at the table. What they lacked in similar looks, they evidently made up for in stubbornness.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Gil asked, placing a hand on Catherine's arm.

"Yeah." She exhaled, stuffing her own hands into the pockets of her long coat in an attempt to disguise the caffeine-induced tremors she was suffering from. "There are a few things I'd like to say to him, actually."

"Rip him a new one for me." Warrick patted her on the shoulder as the group filed into the observation room, leaving Catherine and Brass alone in the hallway.

"Are you ready for this?" The detective asked. He had known this woman long enough to realise that it would be futile trying to change her mind. But he also knew it could get messy in there and Cath was not in the most stable emotional state right now.

"I want to speak to him." She reiterated. "I need to know why."

He scrutinised her, watching for any sign of hesitation or deliberation. Finding none, he released the breath he had been holding and pushed the door open for her to enter.

"Okay. Let's go find out why."

* * *

><p><strong>July 10<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C**

"So, what does Las Vegas police want from me?" The man sniffed, casting nervy glances around the sparse hole he had been so unceremoniously thrown in to.

"You're a tricky man to track down, Dylan." Brass noted, ignoring the question as he took his seat at the table beside the CSI. "I guess that's why Sara resorted to leaving voicemail messages for you, huh?"

Dylan huffed out a bitter laugh, wiping a scarred hand across his mouth.

"That's why I'm here? Because my sister got pissed off with me ducking her calls? I don't fucking believe it." He started to stand up, but Brass' stern voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You're here because your sister is missing."

Dylan froze, sliding slowly back into his seat.

"She's missing? Where is she?"

"Well if we knew that, she wouldn't be missing." Brass spat, catching sight of Catherine rolling her eyes in despair.

"Sara was calling you about funding your mother's care." She interjected. "Why didn't you try to help her?"

"She never asked me for help." He shrugged, drawing a sharp scoff from the criminalist.

"Now, I know that's not true." She leant forward, levelling him a dark stare. "She left you a message asking for help and your response was to 'get a loan'. Right?"

"Yeah, I returned her call and told her that she was going to cause trouble if she wasn't careful." He agreed, mildly puzzled by the line of questioning given the sobering news they'd just delivered.

"Oh you returned her call alright, but it wasn't her that answered." Catherine informed him. "That was me you slammed the phone down on."

"Oh." Dylan scowled, giving her a once over; as if only actually noticing her for the first time. "Well, if I'd known that, I would have asked for your number first."

His sassy comment earned him a sharp smack on the back of the head from Mitchell and he bit back a yelp of surprise. Brass raised his hand at the officer, a silent warning.

"We know about your grandfather, Angelo Valentino." He explained, changing tack. "We know that someone's out to get him and they're using Sara to do it. So, where is _he_?"

"I don't know." Dylan sulked, sniffling and wiping at his nose. The slap must have hurt, as his eyes had started to water. "I haven't seen him in years."

"Wrong answer."

"You knew that something was going to happen, that's why you warned Sara about asking for help. So, what do you know about your grandfather's 'business'?" Catherine pressed.

"I don't know anything about it." Dylan repeated adamantly, barely resisting the temptation to lurch across the table at them. "The last time I saw him, I was a kid and he was walking out on our family. I haven't had anything to do with him since."

"No? Well let me catch you up to speed." Brass played along sarcastically. "_Someone_ seems to think he killed Joseph Acerbi in 1958, and that _someone_ has your sister as a hostage until your grandfather comes out of hiding. So, I repeat, where is he?"

Dylan's gaze had settled on the one-way mirror behind them and he flashed it a grimacing smile, chuckling to himself in amusement.

"Boy, you guys are way off." He snarked. "I don't know what kind of dodgy shit grandpa was into; but I _can_ tell you that if someone's after Sara, it's nothing to do with some dude who died in 1958."

They raised their eyebrows expectantly, awaiting elaboration. The man licked his lips and leant in as close as the restrictive table would allow, lowering his voice to an almost sultry tone.

"You want to find my sister; you ought to take a long, hard look at where she came from."


	13. November 26th 1969

**Hope you guys are enjoying it so far, would be lovely to see some new names in my reviews :P **

* * *

><p><strong>November 26<strong>**th****, 1969 - - Tomales Bay, California**

Angelo stepped out of the car, a cloud of dust rising around his Italian black leather shoes before settling again with an almost-exasperated wheeze. He lifted his gaze slowly from the sandy ground to stare up at the shabby buildings with distaste.

The row of motel rooms stretching out to his left was battered and wind-beaten, wooden frames rotting away from the foundations and a low roof sagging beneath the weight of overhanging bishop pine tree branches.  
>The large area of grassland extending out beyond them was dead and brown, the shrubbery bare; their lost leaves littering the path he was currently treading.<p>

To his right, inexplicably abandoned in overgrown grassland, sat a dilapidated old fishing boat with the name Black Pearl daubed in dark blue paint on the once-white wood.

Directly in front of him, at the entrance to the square of dirt masquerading as a parking lot, lay the house. Surrounded by a staggered wall and sitting atop a flight of stone steps, it was a single-story pine-wood dwelling with blue hand-painted trim and rapidly disintegrating window frames. Like the motel rooms, to say it needed work was a massive understatement.

He turned his back on the property to scan the view, squinting against the low afternoon sun hanging barely above the horizon. The motel, situated in an obscure little part of Tomales Bay known locally as Nick's Cove, sat directly opposite a stretch of bronze-coloured beach.  
>Other than the seafood restaurant – also, very originally, named Nick's Cove – and the long pier reaching out into the sea, there was nothing much to write home about. Halfway down the pier was an iconic wooden archway, a fake fish suspended from its centre, signifying the primary source of income in this dreary little town.<p>

The road forked just ahead of where he was stood, with one part continuing up the Shoreline Highway that he had just travelled along and the other sloping down to a dead-end series of parking spaces directly on the seafront.

On this cold, wintery afternoon, the waves were lashing against the rocks and spilling onto the sand-coated concrete. There was no-one around, but for a couple of stoic fishermen braving the weather and an older man in a dirty apron sweeping up outside the aforementioned restaurant a few yards down the road.

With an almost reluctant sigh, Angelo dragged his attention away from the empty view and hauled his aching feet up the cracked steps to the house. The wooden planks composing the patio were soft and unstable beneath his feet and he felt that if he knocked too hard he could punch a hole straight through the front door.

Oddly enough, he couldn't help but feel that this was a bad idea.

* * *

><p>In his hurry to answer the incessant rapping, Max nearly tripped over one of the many stray boxes still littering the lounge floor.<p>

Though when he finally made it to the front door and realised who his impatient visitor was, he began to regret responding at all; for it was not someone he expected, nor had any particular desire to see.

"Max." The stern voice greeted him with the kind of icy chill that instantly set his teeth on edge.

"Angelo." Max nodded tersely, stepping aside. He had long since learned that it was a fruitless endeavour attempting to prevent access to this man, for he would wait all day if he had to. At least this time he'd had the courtesy to knock.

"Nonno!" An excited young voice squealed and Dylan appeared in a flash of red and gold, hurling himself at the old man. Angelo was a towering figure to most, but Dylan held no fear around him.

"Hey, there he is!" Angelo hoisted the boy onto his hip and examined him. He was growing so fast.  
>With Max's blonde hair and bright blue eyes, Dylan's features were so different from those of Angelo's – he could scarcely believe this child was his own flesh and blood.<p>

Another voice could be heard emanating from the little kitchen at the end of the house – gentle, floaty singing; and it was a voice that Angelo recognised instantly as his daughter's. He set Dylan back on the floor and bent down to his level.

"Hey, why don't you go draw Nonno a picture of your new house?" He suggested, smiling affectionately as the little boy scampered off to oblige.

Once the child was out of earshot, Angelo straightened up and met Max's steely gaze. Even in silence, it was evident that there was no love lost between the son and father-in-law.

"He's a good boy." He stated. "He deserves more than this."

"He's happy with _this_." Max countered bitterly. "Some children don't rely on material gifts to be content."

Rolling his eyes, Angelo brushed off his relative's hippie mentality and made to follow the sound of Laura's song. However, he quickly found his path blocked.

"She's feeding our son." Max explained firmly, folding his arms across his chest in a blatant act of defiance. His shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair fell in untamed waves across his bare shoulders, his sweat-stained tank top splattered with powder-blue paint drops. Despite his peace-loving lifestyle, he cut a robust figure.

"Mi nipote. My grandson." Angelo corrected, as if the two were mutually exclusive. "I have a right to see him."

"Yes, you do." The younger man acknowledged, though it obviously pained him to do so. "When she's ready."

Coincidentally, as the words left his lips, Laura materialised in the entrance-cum-lounge with the baby in her arms. She placed Seth carefully into his bassinet and hurriedly cleared the room to greet her father.

"Papa." She frowned, her arms outstretched towards him. "What are you doing here?"

He accepted her into a brief embrace, pressing a kiss to her temple. He chose to ignore the streak of plasterdust adorning her left cheek, for now; though it bothered him to realise that she had been doing manual labour so soon after giving birth.

"Well, when your mother said that you'd bought a motel in California, I didn't believe her." He explained, sidling around the adults to peer into the crib. "But apparently it's true."

"We're going to run it as a business." Max interjected, moving swiftly to his wife's side and slipping a protective arm around her waist. "You keep asking how I'm going to support my family. This is it."

"Aye." Angelo agreed, casting an uncertain glance around the bare, undecorated room. Even from here, he could see into almost every room in the diminutive house. "This is it."

"It needs some work." Laura admitted. "But that's okay; we don't mind putting some time and effort into it, do we honey?"

"Of course not." Max agreed, watching on warily as Angelo bent down and extracted Seth from his bed. "It'll all be worth it once we get going."

"And you really think you can support a wife, two sons, on this?" Angelo pushed, bouncing the baby gently in his large hands. Seth grizzled at the interruption to his afternoon nap, balling tiny fists into his scrunched eyes. Angelo smiled, studying the little features. At barely two weeks old, he could already tell that this child, like his big brother, had acquired the fair looks of their father.

He would love the boy as he did Dylan; but he couldn't help holding out some hope that, one day, his daughter would provide him with a grandchild who demonstrated some of his DNA as well.

"We can make it work." Max snapped adamantly, beginning to lose patience with the stubborn man.

"Who's going to stay here?" Angelo continued, his thick accent becoming more pronounced with each increase in pitch. He gestured outside towards the deathly quiet road. "I've been driving for miles and this is the first house I've seen."

"It's a tourist destination, papa." Laura pointed out earnestly, determined not to give in to his pessimistic outlook. "People come here on vacation."

"Vacation?" He repeated, as if this were a foreign term to him. "You've got twelve rooms out there; you really think twelve families are going to come to a little hole in the middle of nowhere in November?"

Without flinching, Max deadpanned his response.

"We'll take in gypsies in the winter."

* * *

><p>Max checked once more on his wife and children in the next room, before closing the kitchen door and turning to his increasingly impudent father-in-law. Angelo was examining the faucet, seemingly bemused by the fact that nothing happened when you turned it on.<p>

"We haven't got the water set up yet." He explained brusquely, dragging the elder's attention back.

"I see." Angelo coughed. "And, how do you purport to take care of your family with no running water?"

"It's going to be sorted in the next couple of days. And if we get stuck, there's always the sea." It was meant as a joke, but Angelo's raised eyebrow suggested he did not see the funny side.

Granted, the little house was compact. And with no heat or water, it had been an uncomfortable first week; but Max had grand plans for it. This was his home – their home. And he was going to make it work if it took him a lifetime to do so.

It had always been his dream to have a big family - six children and lots of love and affection. One day, he hoped, they could own the bigger family house set a few hundred yards up the road; and the kids would be running the B&B.  
>But right now, he would settle for proper heating and a few less bills to pay.<p>

Angelo had evidently tired of the conversation and was peering out of the dirty windows, staring bleakly onto the barren wasteland behind the property.

"I think Laura and the boys should come back with me." He asserted, never one to mince his words. "At least until you get the essentials running."

"No." Max ground out between his teeth.

Though he had aspired to have as little contact as possible with his in-laws, he could not bear to cut his wife off from her family altogether. However, he was well aware of how the Valentino clan worked. They were over-bearing and manipulative and if he allowed Laura to go with them now, he'd never entice her back again.

"This is our home, Angelo." He spat brazenly. "And we're not leaving it."

There was a long moment where neither spoke, their eyes locked in a frosty staring contest across the claustrophobic room.

Finally, in slow measured steps, Angelo strode towards him and held his forearm with the kind of grip one would only expect from a vice machine.

"You'd better make this work." He hissed, twisting his hand until he felt the skin bruise beneath it. "Because if you ever let my family down, I'll let you down. Potete contrare su di essa."


	14. July 10th 2004

**In case you're wondering how Sara's doing ...**

* * *

><p><strong>July 10th, 2004 - - Nevada Desert<strong>

Today, Sara awoke to a startling development; for today was the first time since her ordeal began that she had woken up alone in this little ramshackle prison cell. Her stoic and chain-smoking security guard – normally watching over her morning, noon and night with an impenetrable silence – was nowhere to be seen.

She doubted very much that her captors had suddenly acquired a newfound trust in her, so something else must be going on to drag him away from his post.

As her weakened senses adjusted once more to the unstimulating environment, she became vaguely aware of raised voices traversing down the narrow hallway from the perpetually darkened room at the end.

"E dov'è?!" [Where is he?!] A familiar tone demanded.

"Non lo so." [I don't know.] Another confessed; and even she picked up on the hint of panic in his voice. "Sono domande." [They're asking questions.]

"Naturalmente sono. Il loro lavoro a pore domande." [Of course they are. It's their job to ask questions.] The boss spat dismissively.

"Si, ma..."[Yes, but...] The anxious man stuttered. "Ma che cosa se la polizia lo trovo prima?" [But what if the police find him first?]

For a moment she thought they must have stopped talking, as everything fell quiet. She strained closer, but the pain in her head had been growing exponentially day-on-day; inducing agony with even the smallest of movements.

She managed, however, to catch the low murmur of human voices and realised that they were still exchanging words, just at a volume indistinguishable to her ears. Nevertheless, there was one phrase that she heard clear as day.

"Allora avremo a liberarsi della sua." [Then we'll have to get rid of her.]

* * *

><p><strong>July 10th, 2004 - Las Vegas Police Department, Observation Room<strong>

Jim closed the door and turned to the awaiting group.

"So, what do you think?"

"He's not the most sympathetic of people." Catherine mused, one eye still watching their sullen suspect through the glass. "But I don't think he'd purposefully mislead us."

"So, maybe he genuinely doesn't know anything about his grandfather." Grissom suggested. "You said Valentino disappeared in the 80s, right? Dylan would have been a teenager."

"I don't know; I still don't trust him." Nick scowled, moving in front of the door to glower at the middle-aged man. Dylan was shuffling his feet anxiously, his twitchy gaze seeking out every corner of the compact interrogation room as if following the movements of something that nobody else could see. "I mean, look at him. I can smell the fumes from here."

"I guess it can't hurt to take another look at the parents." Catherine sighed, turning her back to the one-way mirror and leaning heavily against it. "Although I don't know what we're going to find out from a dead man and a schizophrenic murderer."

"Well, he's refusing to say anything else until his lawyer gets here." Brass shrugged. "But he took a swing at the officer who brought him off the plane – that should be enough to hold him for now."

"Good." Grissom nodded absently, checking his watch. It was a nervous habit he had acquired of late, as if he was counting down the minutes until Sara was found. "Maybe some thinking time will clear his memory."

"Well, we were going to look into Acerbi's family and see if anyone might still be holding a grudge about his death." Warrick finally spoke up and Gil's interest peaked again at the suggestion.

"Good, I'll come with you." He agreed hurriedly. "If anyone catches a break, use the emergency pager code to get in touch."

He turned to the detective and raised an eyebrow, but Jim had already guessed what he was going to say and held up his hands in assurance.

"Yeah, I'll keep Sidle Junior company." He promised. "Maybe when the withdrawal symptoms wear off he'll become a bit more talkative."

* * *

><p><strong>July 10th, 2004 - - CSI, Layout Room<strong>

"Greg was right, there is a son." Nick explained. "A Raymond Acerbi, born in September 1959 – nine months after Joseph died. I bet Joey didn't even know he was going to be a dad."

Grissom's expression suggested that he really didn't care about the unjust timing of Joseph's death, more concerned with the relevance of this information as it pertained to finding Sara.

"1959." He repeated, calculating the numbers in his head. "That would make him forty-four. So, he can't have been the man in the security video."

"No, bosses rarely put themselves on the line. He'll have sent a soldier to do his dirty work." Warrick corrected. "He probably did the same with Nino's murder."

"Hmm." Gil nodded slowly, continually marvelled by his protégé's wealth of knowledge about mafia dealings. "How did you get on with Nino's case? Any new leads?"

"No, I went over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Whoever killed him was careful."

"But not careful enough." The trio were interrupted by the always welcome sound of Doc Robbins' cane clicking into the room. "I finished the autopsy on Nino Carmine, as a priority." He offered the notes to Warrick, who flicked through them with rarely seen impatience as he scoured the reams of text for any small detail of significance.

"Cause of death?" Grissom asked, electing for the more direct route.

"Fairly obvious: multiple gunshots to the face." The coroner shrugged. "I found some fibres in what was left of his nose, sent them to trace. But the interesting thing was his hands, take a look." He produced a set of x-rays and slid them across the table one at a time.

"His palms are broken." Nick noted, holding the ghostly images up to the light. "Shattered, in fact."

"He was hammered." Warrick realised aloud. Usually used as a warning after stealing from a casino, hammering was also occasionally employed by the mafia for the purposes of extracting information.

"Yeah, and I found the same thing on his feet and his kneecaps." Albert continued sombrely. "He was tortured before he was murdered."

A deathly silence fell over the team as the depth of this sank in. If the same person who'd killed Nino was currently holding Sara, that didn't bode too well for her right now.

"Okay." Warrick cleared his throat, shaking away the worst-case-scenario thoughts that were suddenly flooding his mind. "So, where's Raymond Acerbi now?"

"His address is listed as New York, but he also has links to Las Vegas through some of the smaller casinos off strip that used to belong to Joseph Acerbi." Nick answered. "I guess daddy wanted to keep his business in the family."

"Yeah, well too bad for him he messed with the wrong family this time." The dark-skinned CSI snapped. "What do you wanna bet that Raymond is in Las Vegas right now?"

"If he is then we'll find him." Grissom stated in an eerily calm voice, his gaze still fixed on the haunting images of Nino's battered and slaughtered body.

* * *

><p><strong>July 10th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C<strong>

"Where's Seth?" Brass asked, idly twirling a pen around on the tabletop with the tip of his finger. Dylan was refusing to speak about the case or his missing sister without legal representation, but nothing had been mentioned yet of the third Sidle sibling. "Huh? Where's little bro?"

"I don't know." Dylan hissed through clenched teeth. Either his high was rapidly starting to fade, or he had toothache because he had been grinding them for several minutes now; a sound which felt like claws raking down Jim's spine.

"Sure you do. You said to my colleague," – he glanced at Catherine's hastily typed statement about the phone call – "_'I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Seth'_." Flicking his blue eyes over the piece of paper, he affixed the younger man with a steely glare and repeated his question. "So, where is he?"

"I don't know!" Dylan barked, slamming his hands on the table in frustration. "I talked to him on the phone. I don't know where he lives – we haven't seen each other for years."

"Well, it's nice to know that you share the disregard for both your siblings equally." Brass stated sardonically. Surprisingly, Dylan seemed to take offence at the insinuation that he had neglected his brother and sister in some way. He threw his head back, raking dirty hands through his scraggly blonde hair.

"Hey, I tried to help him once before – he wasn't interested."

"Oh yeah? Maybe he knew what your kind of help entailed." Brass continued the harsh mockery, glad to be getting some kind of reaction out of the man even if it was only sullen anger.

"No, it wasn't like that." Dylan sniffed, shuffling further upright and leaning his elbows on the table. "I was sixteen when I started making plans to move out. I tried to take him away from them, okay. I found a job, I had a mate who was going to let me use his flat ... but Seth wouldn't come. He was too damn loyal to Laura."

"What about Sara? Did you try to save her, too?"

"Of course I did! But what was I supposed to do? She was just a little kid – I could hardly leave her alone all night while I worked my ass off at a takeout joint for three bucks an hour."

"But you could leave her in that house, with your parents." Jim raised an eyebrow, not entirely buying that this scruffy piece of flesh had tried to be the knight in shining armour for his family.

"Hey, I tried!" He snapped back. "I called the police, I reported them. Nothing happened. Nobody ever did anything about it."

Tears were starting to creep down his stained face and he hurriedly wiped them away with an even grubbier sleeve.

"And then, when Max died, I thought they would take her and put her somewhere safe. I didn't know what those people would do to her while she was in care. I never thought it could get worse than it was in that house."

His voice, cracked with emotions that he was quickly losing control of, increased in volume with every strained word uttered. A soft cry stuck in his throat, strangled by the dismissive scoff he hiccupped out in its place.

"I trusted the system with my baby sister before, and look what it did. It was _supposed_ to protect her – _you people_ were supposed to protect her!"

Jim sat forward, never shifting his gaze.

"What do you think we're trying to do now?"

Dylan paused, appearing to calm a little; though the hard look in his watery eyes didn't fade.

"Then where is she?" He demanded, showing the briefest glimpse of fear for the first time since his arrest. "Who has her?"

There was a soft rap at the door and Jim turned to find Catherine gesturing for him through the window. He pushed himself away from the table and stood up, glowering down at the now nearly-sobbing suspect.

"That's what we're trying to find out."


	15. January 13th, 1987

**January 13****th****, 1987 - - New York Supreme Court, Mafia Commission Trial Sentencing Hearing  
><strong>

"In regards to the three members of the Genovese family involved in buying, reselling and transporting of drugs and illicit materials, conspiracy to commit ..."

Raymond rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered a fleeting Hail Mary under his breath. He had never been a particularly spiritual man, but if ever there was a time to convert, this was it.

"...taking all these factors into consideration, and pursuant to the Sentencing Reform Act of 1984, it is the judgement of the court that the Defendants: Mr Roberto Masserio, Mr John Barone and Mr Raymond Acerbi are hereby committed to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons to be imprisoned for a term of seventeen years each."

Raymond felt his heart sink into his stomach, as a roar of discontent rose up from the gallery; the members of the Genovese family highlighting their supportive presence at the sentencing hearing. But he couldn't hear anything above the sound of his own blood rushing though his ears.

Seventeen years. Half a lifetime.

His arms were seized and yanked roughly behind his back, where cold steel was slapped around his wrists. It was a feeling he had become increasingly familiar with in recent months, but he still jumped at the harsh clang as the cuffs clicked shut; the sound of his dungeon door slamming closed.

He could feel the anger and hatred from some of the spectators – members of the public dubbed 'innocent victims of the mafia' by an indignant media – as snarls of revulsion echoed off the high grandiose ceiling. Raymond did his best to ignore the curses and threats and embittered insults thrown by the crowd as he was marched towards the heavy wooden door at the front of the courtroom alongside a more stoic Roberto and John.

Behind that door, he knew, lay a narrow staircase leading down to a set of bleak, single occupancy holding cells.

The three prisoners were shoved through one at a time, John first, then Roberto and finally young Raymond; into the dank, depressing corridor. Ray held back the tears, plastering a look of ambivalence on his face despite the quivering fear settling itself in every bone of his body.

Tonight, they would dine on Italian food and expensive wine – their last opportunity for such finery – and sleep on solid concrete blocks masquerading as beds, before being transferred tomorrow morning to the United States Federal Penitentiary in Marion, Illinois.

Seventeen years. The next time he walked as a free man, it would be in a very different world to the one he was leaving behind today.

* * *

><p><strong>July 11<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Frank's Diner**

"So, Raymond gets out after spending half his life in prison and immediately goes looking for the people he blamed for his father's death?" Nick postulated with a frown, absent-mindedly dunking a cookie into his coffee mug.

"Well, seventeen years is a long time to brood." Brass shrugged, taking a long slurp of his own drink.

They had spent so much time cooped up in the lab, cabin fever was beginning to set in and the boys decided a change of scenery might help clear the fog in their minds.

"Some people get a degree in prison; I guess Raymond just got angry." The detective continued blithely.

"Yeah, think about it." Warrick added, sinking his teeth into a large bacon sandwich and chewing thoughtfully on it. "He probably felt that he didn't have a choice about entering the mafia after they killed his father. He was twenty six when he got sent down on a tacked-on charge against his boss. He spent the best part of his life behind bars, ultimately because someone killed Joseph. Wouldn't you be pissed off?"

"Sure, I'd be angry." Nick agreed, scowling morosely at the crumbs now floating in his mug. "But he had a chance to start his life again. Instead, he chooses to avenge his father's death forty years after the fact?"

"Nicky," Jim chuckled at the Texan's integral optimism. "These guys have made their lives around revenge. He probably spent his whole prison sentence planning how to get his own back. So, he gets out, looks up his dad's old pal Nino and tries to beat a confession out of him."

"But, Nino doesn't talk. So, he gets a cap in the head." Warrick mimed the action. "So, now it's Angelo's turn."

"Alright. But Angelo can't be found, so he kidnaps Sara in an attempt to lure him out." Nick nodded, following Warrick's mental timeline even if he still wasn't entirely convinced by it. "And ... bribes Sam Braun? For what?"

At the mention of the mogul's name, Jim glanced up with a quirked eyebrow.

"Hey, where's Catherine?" He asked, suddenly realising that he hadn't seen the strawberry-blonde for quite a while.

The CSI's exchanged a small shrug, less concerned with their assistant supervisor's location than that of their missing friend.

Sara's disappearance had knocked them all for six, but Catherine in particular seemed to be struggling more than Brass expected. From her erratic behaviour, he'd almost think _she_ had something to feel guilty about.

* * *

><p><strong>March 21<strong>**st****, 2004 - - CSI Break Room**

"Oh, hey." Catherine blinked, surprised to find herself with some company on her unplanned break.

Sara lifted her head, offering a brief smile, before resuming staring at the open magazine on the bench. Judging by the three empty cups beside her and the fact that her eyes were still half-closed, Cath suspected that Sara hadn't actually taken in a word of the text she was pretending to read.

"So, how are you?" She asked casually, ambling to the fridge and helping herself to a bottle of soda.

"Fine." Sara mumbled, drawing an eye roll from Catherine.

_Fine_. How many times had that word been uttered when Sara was in fact anything but _fine_.

"Yeah, everything okay at home?"

This time the question caught Sara's attention and she finally turned around to face her companion, suspicion written across her exhausted features.

"It's fine." She repeated carefully. "Why?"

"Nothing. You just look tired, that's all." Cath noted with a hint of concern, taking a seat at the centre bench next to the cagey brunette. "I wanted to check you were okay ... that there's nothing we should be worried about?"

Sara picked up on the undisguised question in her statement and pursed her lips.

"Everything's fine," she insisted, as if repeating the sentiment might make it seem more plausible. "I've just had a lot on my mind recently, that's all."

"Oh yeah?" Catherine folded her hands inoffensively on the table and sat forwards. "Like what?"

"Just ... stuff." Sara shrugged, unsubtly gathering her things together with the intention of leaving before this conversation could veer into even more personal territory.

"Stuff like..." Cath pressed, following the movements with a trained eye. "Money?"

Sara's hands stilled, her gaze narrowing behind the brunette curls shielding her face.

"No." She drawled at last, but the drop in her voice still caused anxious butterflies to spring to life in the older woman's stomach. Risking a bold move, she reached out to grip Sara's wrist before the girl could escape.

"Sar, you know you can come to us with any problems, right?"

Sara's eyes had widened at the unprecedented physical contact and she quickly retracted her own arm. For a few seconds, she just stared at Catherine in silent shock.

"I appreciate the concern," she mumbled hoarsely at last, though her tone suggested she decidedly did not appreciate it. "But I can manage my own life."

"Sara," Cath sighed. "Honey, I don't know what's made you do defensive, but I promise I'm not doing this to hurt you or to pry into your life. I just want to help."

"Why?" The suspicious question slipped out naturally before Sara could recall it, and caused a sadness to wash over Catherine's features.

"Because I care about you. And because I'm worried that you're in some kind of trouble you're not telling us about."

The look of panic on Sara's face was brief, so much so that Catherine wasn't even sure it had ever been there.

"I, uh..." She stuttered, deciding to abandon her things on the table and taking a determined step back. "I'd better get back to work."

Cath spun around on her stool, one hand still outstretched helplessly towards the rapidly departing figure.

"Sara, wait!"

* * *

><p><strong>July 11<strong>**th,**** 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Locker Room**

But she didn't wait. And nor did any later attempts to breach the subject yield more promising results.

Catherine sighed, letting her head fall into her hands despondently. If only she had tried harder, maybe she could have avoided some of this hell.

"Everything okay?" A gentle voice enquired, startling her out of her inner turmoil. The irony of Greg asking_ her_ that question, given her current musings, was completely lost on the supervisor.

She turned to find the young man hovering in the threshold, a mug of freshly made coffee steaming in his hands. Even from here, she could smell it was his own private stash rather than the office sludge, which closely resembled motor oil.

"I'm just ..." she threw one hand out, letting the sentence hang. Greg took the half-statement as permission to enter and ambled over, offering the drink to her.

"Sara?" He guessed, although it was blatantly obvious from the look on her face.

"I just keep thinking about that phone call." She explained, taking a large mouthful of the coffee and savouring the rich taste. "I wish I'd tried harder to get her to talk. I wish I'd done more to help her, when I had the chance."

"Do you think she'd have listened, even if you did?" Greg pointed out with a half smile.

"Probably not." She acknowledged. "But I'd feel better about it."

Greg nodded slowly in understanding, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"So, you think that Dylan's right? That the family and the money have something to do with her disappearance?"

She straightened up, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Her thoughts were so jumbled, she didn't know where to start organizing them anymore.

"I think ..." she paused, cocking her head to the side. "I think that there's more to the story than meets the eye."

"Well, you might be right there." The lab tech agreed, finally explaining his presence. At her enquiring nod, he joined her on the bench. "Okay, so I've been looking into her family at the time of Max's death. The B&B was in serious trouble – so much so, a few months earlier Max had taken a loan to keep them afloat."

"You think that had something to do with his death?"

"Yeah, I do. The loan was from Angelo Valentino."

Cath's mouth fell open as she realised where he was going with this, but she quickly snapped it shut again.

"So, Max borrows money from his father-in-law and can't pay it back. Maybe Laura found out about it and that's why she killed him?"

"Well that's just it – I'm not so sure Laura _did_ kill Max." Greg continued with increased urgency. "I've been looking over the case files for Laura's arrest and trial. The initial police report stated that she was found catatonic in the bedroom, with the murder weapon beside her. _But_, when questioned, she kept referring to these _men_."

"What men?"

"Well that's just it. Nothing ever came of it." He shrugged. "But, what if Angelo got fed up of waiting for his money and sent someone in to collect."

Catherine tilted her head back, letting the pieces of the puzzle slot into place.

"You think Laura was set up." She rephrased. "By her own father?"

"Exactly! It was thought Angelo disappeared after the Mafia Commission Trials, but actually the last reports of him being active in the criminal world is in 1983, right around the time Laura was arrested and two years before the trials were in full swing." He was getting more excited now, his hands gesticulating wildly with each word. "What if Angelo sent someone in to kill Max and Laura ended up taking the fall for it?"

"Well, this is all very interesting but how are you going to prove it?" She asked. "And how does it link to Sara's disappearance?"

"Don't know yet." He admitted, deflating slightly. "But if this was all about money, and Dylan knew about it, that might explain why he wouldn't help Sara with Laura's care bills."

Catherine exhaled, placing her hands on her knees.

"Okay, assuming you're right and this has nothing to do with Nino Carmine and Joseph Acerbi – maybe we should go and talk to Dylan again."

The suggestion drew an almost impish smile from the young technician that, for a moment, took her back to a time before this hell warped their existence.

"I can do you one better than that."


	16. July 11th 2004

**Hi guys, thanks for waiting for this chapter. I started my new job this week and have been living in a B&B with no wifi for several days while I get my new digs sorted out. In thanks for you patience, I shall endeavor to get the next chapter up tomorrow :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 11th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C<strong>

Seth Sidle, like his big brother, had flowing blonde hair and big ocean-blue eyes.

However, that is where the similarities ended; for he was clean, well groomed and much more alert than the eldest sibling. As soon as the door opened, he was out of his seat and across the room in two purposeful strides.

"Well, where is she? Have you found her?" He gushed frantically. "No-one will tell me anything!"

Catherine held up her hands in defence, as Officer Mitchell ushered the man back towards his chair.

"Alright, why don't you just calm down." Mitch instructed sternly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"No!" Seth shrugged him off with a jolt. "You said my sister's missing. I want to know, what have you got?"

Catherine shot Greg a sideways glance and nodded towards the table.

"Mr Sidle," She cleared her throat. It felt strange just saying the name – she hadn't even called Sara by her surname in over two years. "When was the last time that you spoke to your sister?"

"Not ... not recently." He confessed, sinking back into his chair and clawing both hands through his silky sun-stained locks. "She phoned me a few weeks ago to talk about our mother, but aside from that ... honestly, we don't see each other often."

Catherine frowned at the man. The brothers could have been the same person, but for the bright spark that was present in Seth's eyes and the haunted glower that seemed permanently etched into Dylan's features. Yet, where Dylan was impulsive and reckless, Seth spoke slowly, carefully; as if he was mulling over each word in turn before deciding whether it was safe to voice them out loud.

It was a trait, she realised now, that Sara had developed as well.

"What about Dylan?" Greg asked. Having brought no paperwork with him to shuffle, he found himself unsure of what to do with his hands and eventually settled for folding them awkwardly on the tabletop. He had never sat in on an interrogation before. It felt powerful and vulnerable all at the same time, like a game of chess. The aim was to get the upper hand and maintain it.  
>But, one wrong move and it was checkmate.<p>

"Dylan," Seth choked out an embittered laugh, wiping a smooth hand over his mouth. "Dylan's a junkie. He ran out on us when we were just kids. He didn't want anything to do with our family."

"Well, no offence but I can see why he might want to cut himself off." Cath pursed her lips, hoping that the veiled insult might elicit a response of some kind.

Sure enough, Seth lifted himself out of his seat and pointed an accusatory finger at the CSI.

"Hey, my mother is not a murderer!"

Catherine cocked her head to the side, mildly surprised by the force of the younger man's outburst. Clearly, that notorious Italian temper was present in all the Sidle children.

"Why do you say that?"

"My father was a monster." He snarled. "He beat her, he beat _all_ of us. He drove her to it."

"So, you do believe that your mother stabbed your father?" Greg clarified, picking up on Cath's point. "You just think she was justified in doing so?"

"She _was_ justified." He shook his head with a perplexed scowl. "Look, I came here because you said Sara was missing – what the hell do my parents have to do with anything?"

"Well, your brother seems to think that they do." Greg shrugged, feeling himself relax into the role of interrogator. "You were only fourteen when your father died. What do you remember about your family's business?"

"What?" Seth scoffed disbelievingly. "Their business? Are you serious?"

"Yes." Catherine encouraged bluntly. "Was money tight? Were they fighting more often than usual?"

"They were always fighting." He spat. "And money was always tight. Now, do you have anything on Sara or not?"

Sensing that they were going to lose his co-operation soon, Cath produced a sheet of paper and slid it across the table towards him.

"You father took a loan from your grandfather a few months before he died. Do you know anything about it?"

For the first time since they had sat down, Seth's foot stopped tapping on the floor and he leant forward with intrigue.

"No." He scanned the document hurriedly, barely taking in a word of it before shoving it sullenly away from him. "But then I was _only fourteen_. What would I know about it?"

Choosing to ignore the sarcastic tone of the comment, Cath took the paperwork back and folded her arms.

"So, Dylan didn't mention anything about it when he called you up and refused to help pay for Laura's care?"

Seth sat back in his seat, his eyes narrowed.

"Is there something you know about my parents that I don't?" He asked. "Has Dylan said something?"

"Look, we just want to find your sister." Catherine interjected, refusing to get drawn into his questions. "And the more information we have about her and her family, the sooner we can do that."

Seth's head tilted imperceptibly to the side and he mimicked her, crossing his arms, his lips forming a very familiar pout.

"There's nothing else I have to say; so why don't you guys get back to me when you've found my little sister."

* * *

><p><strong>December 4<strong>**th****, 1982 - - Sidle's B&B, Tomales Bay, California**

Dylan's whole body went stiff at the sound of muted yelps and dull thuds echoing through the paper-thin walls. Placing his guitar gently on the floor, he rose from the bed and crept out of the room. He inched silently down the narrow corridor with his back pressed against the wall, holding his breath.

From here, he couldn't see the source of the noise, so it must be coming from the kitchen. He considered sneaking out of the house, as he frequently did, and disappearing for a night on his moped.

It was becoming rarer for him to witness these events, so often did he stay out late. But tonight had been bitterly cold and he'd found it mildly preferable to take his chances in the family home than out there on the cold streets.

He was still waiting for his mate Robbie to confirm that he could move into his new flat. As soon as Robbie's dad gave the go-ahead for them to share the rent, he would be out of here like a bullet. The sooner the better, as far as Dyl was concerned. He spent half his life there as it was, he may as well be paying for it.

And that was where he was planning to go tonight. But then there was another crash and a sharp cry that was instantly recognisable and impossible to ignore.

Forgoing all thoughts of his own safety, the teenager launched himself off the wall, tearing through the small house and bursting unceremoniously into the kitchen.

The first thing he registered seeing was Seth, his little brother, standing at the far side of the room against the sink. He was white as a ghost, staring wide-eyed at the horror scene playing out before him.

In the centre of the room, Max had their mother pinned against the kitchen table. He was standing over her, tall and threatening with blood pouring down his bare arm where she had nicked him with the knife.

But the reason he had come running so fast was still cowering against the fridge. His baby sister, barely nine years old, was visibly shaking even from here. She was trying fruitlessly to dodge her father's unsteady footsteps while he stumbled above her.  
>And to his horror, Dyl could already see the bruises forming from whatever force he had applied to her tender, youthful skin.<p>

"No, don't!" Laura wailed, attempting to push Max away. The smell of stale beer washing over her was suffocating, almost tangible, as he attempted to force himself on her right there in the middle of the room. "Please, don't!"

Spotting the discarded knife on the floor, Dylan darted for it and threw his entire weight into his father's bulky frame. But despite his inebriated state, Max was still faster and quickly grabbed the boy's wrist; squeezing so hard that he dropped the weapon again with a sharp clatter.

"Don't hurt him!" Sara yelled. Finding an extra bout of courage from somewhere, she jumped to her big brother's aid and began beating her tiny fists against Max's strong back; but it had about as much effect as Dylan's pitiful attempts to kick their father away.

When Max turned, one arm poised to hit Sara again, Dylan raised a knee firmly into his groin. In an instant, he changed the path of his swing.

"Little bastard!" He slurred, his left fist colliding with Dylan's chin and producing a thunderous crack that sent a shock reverberating through the room.

Dylan dropped like a stone on to the hard floor, his hands groping pitifully at his broken jaw bone.

Max stared down at his eldest son, writhing in pain, with an emotionless glaze.

Then, seemingly oblivious to the devastation he was walking away from, he stumbled haphazardly over the child and brushed past his sobbing wife into the lounge; where he would probably pass out in his chair for the duration of the evening.

Dylan scrunched his eyes closed, biting down on the surge of pain coursing through his entire face.

A small noise caught his attention and his eyes flew open, lest his father be coming back for round two. But the only thing he saw was the inverted image glinting in the edge of the knife. Sara, her chestnut curls and dark eyes so unlike those of his own, blinked at him through a sad, watery gaze.

But in the reflection of the blade, all he saw was a jagged crack lying between them.

* * *

><p><strong>July 11th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room B<br>**

"After we got back from the hospital, I got into another fight with my parents. And then I left."

"You left?" Brass repeated, quirking an eyebrow.

"I packed a bag and took off." Dylan sniffed, wiping away the tears that had started to creep from his eyes. "Laura was hysterical, crying and screaming at my father. Seth was sulking. And Sara ... Sara begged me to stay. She was apologising, blaming herself..."

"Wait, she blamed herself for _you_ leaving?" Nick frowned. "She was nine years old."

"I know." He mumbled with a half-hearted shrug. "But because he broke my jaw while I was protecting her, she thought it was all her fault. She blamed herself for everything bad that happened in our house – she had quite a complex when she was a kid."

"Alright," Jim held up his hands to stop the line of conversation. It pained him enough to think about Sara's past, he didn't need to hear about it in explicit detail as well. "So, your father busts your jaw and you bail. Then what?"

"I took some of the painkillers I'd been given – too many, probably; and I had a couple of drinks. I was angry, so I went back to the house. I don't know if I was hoping to have another argument, but ... I saw them leave – the men. There were two of them."

"What did _they_ look like?"

"It was dark." He shrugged again. "They were in suits, dark hair and one of them was wearing sunglasses even though it was the middle of the night."

"So, you phoned the police and told them what you'd seen, right?" The detective cocked his head to the side. "Oh no, that's right, you didn't."

"I was a stupid teenager! And I'd been in trouble with the cops already; I knew they wouldn't believe a word I said."

"What about Sara, and Seth? Did they know anything about these guys you saw?"

"No, nothing. They were just kids." He moped, doodling an invisible pattern on the table with the nicotine-stained tip of his finger. "I knew something must have happened so I went inside and ... and Sara was stood in the bedroom, just staring at him. I picked her up and put her into her room, and I told Seth to call the cops. Then I left again."

"So, what about the money?" Nick placed his hands flat on the table, everything about his body language emanating frustration with the pathetic figure hunched before him. "I mean, I just don't get it man? If I knew my mother had been wrongly convicted, I'd do anything I could to help her. I certainly wouldn't stand back and let my sister take full financial responsibility for her care."

"That money is tainted!" Dylan insisted, slamming his palm down. "All of our father's assets went to us, equally; with the clause that we all have to sign before it can be accessed."

"And what?" Jim pushed. "You didn't want to see all that money disappear into a care home. I don't know, maybe you had some plans for it already? Stock market investments, perhaps?"

Dylan shot the older man a derisive look, not appreciative of the blatant sarcasm.

"My grandfather gave Max a loan, and he never got it back. That's the money sitting there, waiting for us to access. I knew that if we released it, it would bring everything out into the open again."

Nick sat forwards, holding Dylan's gaze.

"So, you let your _baby sister_ take the weight of Laura's care, rather than tell the police the truth?"

"I ... I didn't..." He shrugged meekly, the tears flowing freely by now down his haggard face. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Brass and Nick shared a look, as their subject collapsed forwards and buried his face in his arms on the table.

They couldn't be sure, but they both suspected his desperate apology wasn't intended for either of them.

* * *

><p><strong>July 11th, 2004 - - CSI, Layout Room<br>**

"Alright, so Laura didn't kill Max. I still think Raymond Acerbi has something to do with all this." Nick insisted, rapping his knuckle on the black and white photo of the gangster's son.

"Me too." Catherine agreed. "But I don't think Dylan knew that; I think he genuinely believes his grandfather has Sara because of that loan and the money Max left them."

"Well, he might not have her, but I think he is at the centre of all this."Warrick rubbed his tired eyes. "Only problem is we don't know where he is; and we still haven't found Acerbi – he's not in any of his registered properties."

"Maybe he's skipped town." Greg suggested. "He has properties in New York, as well. We could put out a broadcast to NYPD."

"Already done." Catherine cut in. "They're going to call us if they find him."

"So," Nick exhaled. "Where the hell does that leave us?"

As if on cue, Grissom burst into the room with a rare display of urgency.

"Guys, get in the cars." He ordered bluntly, waving his cell phone in the air. "We've found Raymond Acerbi's hideout."


	17. July 11th 2004 - July 12th 2004

**July 11****th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas, Enterprise Highway**

"So, are you going to tell me?" Catherine urged once they got away from the town traffic and onto the quiet desert roads.

"I don't know." Grissom stated in a clipped tone; his gaze remaining trained on the dark, gloomy path stretching endlessly ahead of them. The only thing leading him was the flashes of blue and red illuminating the star-filled sky in the distance. "All I know is Acerbi has been seen in a warehouse that's leased under a false name."

In the car behind them, Warrick beeped his horn angrily at the startled animal that darted out in front of him. They could picture him swearing and swerving violently while Nick and Greg clung onto the door handles for dear life.

After what felt like an age of driving in anxious silence, the convoy of vehicles came to a screeching halt outside a seemingly abandoned warehouse situated in a deserted industrial park.

Close to their stopping point was a police car with the rear door open and a fierce-looking Uniform standing guard over the dark-haired man in the back-seat. Catherine's heart skipped a beat at the sight of their target in handcuffs – after the stress of the last week, all of a sudden they were tantalisingly close to getting Sara back.

However, her hopes were quickly dashed when two paramedics strolled out of the warehouse empty handed.

"Oh, God." She gasped breathlessly. "Oh, no."

The team exited their cars and moved as one unit towards the awaiting group of police officers. Their grim expressions, needless to say, did not fill them with optimism.

"She's not here." Jim stepped out from the crowd with his hands up before they could even start to throw questions at him. "We get a lot of teenagers shooting off guns up here. The arresting officer was doing a routine check and got a bit excited when he found paperwork relating to Raymond Acerbi in this guy's pocket."

Grissom peered inside the police car at the sullen-looking young man staring resolutely ahead. Even in the dim light, he was instantly recognisable as the man from the CCTV footage who had taken Sara.

"Who is this guy?" The usually-placid entomologist barked with irritation.

"We don't know; he won't give up his name." The young cop who answered had materialised at his side and offered up the aforementioned paperwork.

"I'll get it out of him." Brass snarled, leaving the CSIs and stalking towards the car with his hands balled into fists. It was no secret that the hardened detective was the best in the department at extracting information from suspects – tonight he'd extract teeth if it got him closer to finding the missing criminalist.

"Any sign of Sara in the buildings?" Cath asked, although she suspected that she already knew the answer.

"No, nothing." The cop sighed, tilting his head towards the cloudless sky and exhaling a deep breath; which misted into faint, white wisps in the cold air. "The whole place looks deserted."

"So, what was he doing here?" Gil frowned, gesturing again towards the car.

"I don't know. Maybe you should ask _him_." The officer stepped aside, revealing another hereto unseen man being questioned on the far side of the lot.

Catherine's gaze locked with that of the second suspect and her heart sank into the pit of her stomach.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me!"

* * *

><p>"I told you Muggs, I don't know anything about your missing friend."<p>

Despite the pleading sincerity in his voice, her snort of repulsion suggested that she didn't believe him.

"We have that man on tape kidnapping Sara; and now you're out here in the dead of night giving him money!"

"I was sent this." Sam extracted a neatly folded letter from his top pocket and held it up for them to read. It was short and concise – instructions to bring the money to this address tonight and to tell no one else.

"And it never occurred to you to bring that to the lab?" Catherine snatched it from him and slipped it into a plastic evidence bag. "I told you, if you received any more information from them _I_ wanted to know about it!"

"I was trying to save my life." He offered by way of excuse.

"Yeah, well I'm more concerned with saving Sara's life." She spat; and Sam had no doubt that she would sacrifice him in a heartbeat if it increased Sara's chance of survival.

Brass, by now, had ambled over too.

"Why is it, Sam, that whenever bodies start dropping in this town, all roads seem to lead back to you?" He enquired tersely.

"Coincidence."

"This is no joke, Sam." Catherine hissed, jabbing a finger into his chest. "And you can keep saying that you don't know anything about this, but I don't buy it. You don't do these things yourself – you send one of your lackeys to do it for you."

"I prefer to deal with blackmail in person." He shrugged lazily. "I was hoping to get Acerbi by himself. To ... reason with him."

"Yeah, sure." Brass nodded, not believing for a second that his plans were so civil. "So, where is Raymond?"

"I don't know."

When it was clear that they were not going to accept a word he was saying, the mogul rolled his eyes and sighed wearily.

"Alright, you want to know what I do know?" He asked rhetorically. "I know why Raymond's so angry. And he's right – Nino, Angelo and myself did agree to Joey's plot to usurp Tony."

"Tony Accardo, the mafia boss from Chicago." Brass clarified.

"Yes, but it was a foil. The plan was to set him up for a big fall. It was never intended to kill him."

"So, you don't know who shot him?" Cath raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"No. It could have been Nino or Angelo. Or half the Made Men in New York, for that matter." He tilted his head to the side, licking his lips slowly in thought. "But whoever it was, I can't say that I blame them. Killing Tony would have started a war – killing Joey probably saved a lot of innocent people."

"Yeah, well that might well be the case." Catherine wrapped her coat around herself tighter, though even that wasn't enough to fend off the chilling thoughts that had embedded themselves so deeply in her bones. "But it could still get Sara killed."

* * *

><p><strong>July 12<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room A**

The man sat perfectly still, staring stoically at the one-way mirror with the glazed eyes only a ruthless criminal could possess.

"Roberto Masserio Junior." Brass exhaled, slapping a manila folder onto the table. "Or do you prefer Bobby?"

Bobby shifted his cold eyes to the detective's face, but his lips remained tightly pursed.

"I mean, that's what your old man used to call you, right? Before he got sent down. Along with Johnny Barone and ... well, what do you know, Raymond Acerbi."

Still no response from their suspect, but his jaw twitched at the mention of his father. Jim sat down and propped both elbows up on the table.

"It must have been tough, growing up without a dad. I looked up his details," He opened the file and turned it around to show the man. On top of the paperwork lay a black and white photo of the late Roberto Masserio Senior. Bobby's cold gaze latched onto it, studying it determinedly, as if he was trying to recall all the long-forgotten features; but his own expression never softened.  
>"He died in prison, six months before he was due to be released. And that's when Raymond started looking out for you. He took you under his wing, taught you the trade; and even let you collect his ransom money." He slid a second photo across the desk, this time of someone far more recognisable. "So, where is she?"<p>

For the first time since his arrest, Bobby reacted; though his movements were slow and calculated. He picked up the photograph, staring at it long and hard for a minute, before sliding it back towards Jim.

"Ci sono alcuni peccati," He mumbled hoarsely, "per cui il perdono non può essere acquistato."

* * *

><p>"This guy?" Nick scoffed from the other side of the window. "Seriously, you're relying on this guy to find Sara?"<p>

"He obviously works for Raymond." Grissom pointed out. "Acerbi wouldn't send someone he didn't trust to collect ransom money, right?

"Yeah, but this guy isn't going to talk." The Texan continued angrily. "He hasn't said a word all night, and what he does say no-one can even understand."

"That's because he knows that his boss will kill him if he talks." Warrick countered.

"I wonder if Sara understands Italian." Catherine mused quietly from the back of the room. The boys turned to her, surprised by the odd remark.

"What difference does that make?"

"Well, if she does then she might have been able to converse with them – reason with them, maybe."

They nodded slowly, conceding her point. Of course, there was a flip side to that; that if Sara couldn't understand what they were saying then she'd be even more terrified. However, though they all shared that depressing thought, nobody elected to voice it out loud.

The unsettling silence was interrupted by both doors opening simultaneously. Jim stood in one, looking exhausted and frustrated with the unsuccessful interrogation. Opposite him, practically shaking with energy, stood Greg armed with a large laminated item rolled up and tucked beneath his arm.

For a few seconds, they just blinked at each other across the cramped room.

"I found something." He exclaimed at last, striding to the table and unrolling his item. It was a map of Las Vegas. "Archie checked silent Bobby's phone records and tracked the most recent messages to a tower on West Charleston." He produced a pen and circled it.

"Well, that's right on the edge of town." Catherine noted with a scowl.

"Right." Greg nodded eagerly. "And I checked his car's GPS. He has been doing a lot of driving. About twenty miles after the last message was sent."

"Okay." Warrick took the pen and circled a roughly twenty-mile radius on around the previous mark. "That's still a huge search area."

"Well, maybe I can narrow that down for you." They team whirled around en mass, surprised to find David Hodges had graced them with their presence. "You know, there is a layout room in the lab for this kind of thing." He noted with derision at seeing them all crowded around the tiny table in the little observation room.

"Do you have something?" Grissom demanded. He had no time for the lab rat's sarcasm today.

"I checked the trace you guys pulled from your suspect's car. It's sand."

"Oh, great." Nick threw up his hands. "That's fantastic Hodges, except we live in a fucking desert!"

"Alright, but if you'd let me finish, I could explain." Giving the irate southern CSI a wide birth, he stepped up the map and, snatching a pen off Greg, began shading a large section of the highlighted area. "See, the sand I found was rich in several minerals, including silver, zinc and carnotite. My guess is, wherever your guy's been driving, it's near a mine. Or several mines – somewhere near the mountains, probably."

"Carnotite." Gil repeated, scanning the circled search area. "Potosi."

"What?" Cath asked, trying to see what he was evidently seeing on the map. In answer to her question, he pointed at a single point where a mountain range met with the desert.

"Carnotite was found in Mount Potosi but it's not mined there. And there's only one place I know of where it's found that you can drive to without a specialist mountain vehicle. That's where he has her."

All of them leant closer, staring at the bleak desert landscape for a long moment; trying to place what exactly they were supposed to be seeing. But, again, it was Nick who spoke up first, with a sentiment that summed up what they were all thinking.

"Where the hell is that?"

* * *

><p><strong>July 12<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Potosi Mountain, Nevada Desert **

The front door collapsed into a cloud of splinters and dust as the army of cops barrelled their way inside. Like a hoard of locusts, they spilled into the rickety wooden shack and fanned out.

"Raymond Acerbi!" Brass hollered into the empty darkness, his gun drawn at his hip. "Show yourself!"

Nick and Warrick were already skirting behind him towards the darkened room at the end of the hallway.

The door was already open part way, but a sharp kick from Warrick's boot nearly took it off its hinges.

The reckless act proved to be a mistake, as a whoosh of debris gathered in the backs of their throats, causing them to cough and splutter pitifully until the dust settled around them.

Once their vision cleared enough to see into the room, they both felt a rush of adrenaline which quickly turned into despair.

Hanging off the wall was a set of rusty shackles, next to an empty chair.

Chains, a security guard's watch point ... but no Sara.

By now the police had cleared the rest of the small building – if you could even call it that – and Catherine, Grissom, Greg and Jim all joined the guys in staring breathlessly at the spot where their hopes now lay shattered and as empty as the restraints they were fixated on.

Finally, Cath stepped forwards and dropped to her knees, scooping the stone cold chains into her hands.

"We're too late!" She wailed, tears springing to her eyes.

Nick emitted an enraged roar, turning around and landing a kick against the wall, sending his foot straight through the flimsy wood panel.

"The son of a bitch!" He growled, his fierce movements causing the whole structure to shake. "I swear, when I find him, I'm going to kill him!"


	18. July 12th 2004

**Next chapter is the one you've all been waiting for :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>July 12<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Potosi Mountain, Nevada Desert**

Sweat glistened on her back as clouds of black powder swirled and twisted in the flashes of blazing sun streaming through the partially-boarded window. In the intense, muggy heat of the cramped prison cell, Catherine could practically feel herself losing weight through perspiration alone.  
>She had been here for two hours and already felt as though she was dying; she couldn't even begin to image how Sara had coped being stowed away in here for eight days. She could only hope that they had allowed her enough water to prevent dehydration from setting in.<p>

The creak of a floorboard by the door pricked her attention and she whirled around. A tiny flicker of hope sprang to life in her mind, but the absurdity of her optimism quickly dawned on her.  
>Sure enough, instead of Sara, she found Detective Vartann lurking in the entrance.<p>

He had his back to her, staring in perplexity at a large hole in the wall.

"Oh, ignore that." She straightened up and brushed her damp hair out of her eyes. "Nick."

He nodded slowly in understanding, scanning the bleak surroundings.

"Wow." He whistled. "He really kept her in here all this time?"

"Looks that way." She sighed, abandoning the fruitless task of trying to fingerprint the entire room and deciding instead to swab the metal chains for DNA. If Sara had been encased in these, she would have no doubt been struggling against them in a last-ditch attempt for freedom. "Hopefully this should tell us for definite."

The detective hummed absently in agreement, studying her while she worked. Catherine Willows had always been an attractive woman; but since this ordeal started she had become drained and weary. She seemed almost to have aged ten years in as many days.

"So, where do you think he's taken her?"

"I don't know." She groaned, heaving herself to her feet and pocketing the swab. "There's blood in here and in the bathroom, but there's not much else to go on. I found a lot of cigarette ash by that chair – I guess he wanted to keep an eye on her. But there are no cigarettes for DNA."

"That sucks." Vartann offered unhelpfully. "Although, Warrick found some tyre tracks outside leading back towards Vegas. That could still prove probative."

"Really?" She enquired. "Do we know what they are? Make, model?"

"Big." He shrugged. "He said they were unusual. Trace lab is working on photos of them now."

Catherine nodded, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. Years of harsh winds and mountain rainstorms had left it riddled with decay and dangerously fractured.

"God. I just wish I knew what they'd done to her – what might be going through her mind right now." She swallowed around the lump in her throat, tear-laden eyes flashing to his face. "She must be terrified. What if she doesn't know that we're looking for her?"

"Hey, of course she does." He cleared the room in two strides, gripping her arms and trailing his calloused hands gently up and down them in a rhythmic, comforting movement. "Of course she does. She knows that you guys are far too stubborn to ever let a case get away from you."

Cath choked out a laugh that somehow morphed into a sob.

"Hey, she'd have no right to call _us_ stubborn."

The joke drew a knowing chuckle from him and his thin lips twisted into a smile. Sara Sidle was, after all, the definition of obstinate.

Catherine paused, lifting her head to meet Vartann's gaze again; her expression calmer this time.

"She's going to be okay." She decided at last. "I mean, she has to be, right?"

* * *

><p><strong>July 12<strong>**th****, 2004 - - CSI, Layout Room**

"Alright," Grissom exhaled, exhaustion occupying every ounce of his body. "Let's get this straight: what do we know?"

"Well, if Dylan's testimony is to be believed, Max was killed by the mafia in retaliation for an unpaid loan from Angelo Valentino; and Laura took the fall for it." Warrick began. "But I think that's a separate issue. I think Dylan was blinded by fear that his grandfather would come back for the money one day."

"Yeah, me too." Nick chimed in. "I still think Raymond's our man. He's out for revenge on whoever murdered his father. He killed Nino, he was probably going to kill Sam last night and he can't find Angelo so he's taken Sara to try and draw him out of hiding."

"Yeah, and he's still in the wind." Rick finished tensely. "With Sara."

"Jim said Bobby's still not talking either." Catherine added. "And Sam swears he's told us everything he knows, although I'm not sure I buy it."

"So, we've got a missing gangster out for revenge on another gangster ... who may have killed the first guy's father forty years ago." Gil frowned, trying to piece it all together. His head was so foggy from stress and lack of sleep, nothing made any sense to him anymore. "And none of this helps us get any closer to finding Sara."

"DNA and prints confirmed that Sara was definitely held in those chains." Greg offered. "And all of the blood at the scene was hers as well, so at least we've found the right place."

"Yeah, too late." Warrick scoffed bitterly.

"Well, I don't know where this fits in with your current theory;" Hodges interrupted, sauntering up to the table with a manila folder spread open in his hands. "But I got the results on your tyre tracks."

The team all leant imperceptibly closer, eager for any kind of lead. Satisfied with their apparent anticipation, he cleared his throat and produced a photograph, sliding it into the centre for everyone to see.

"Your tyres came from a 1972 Fleetwood Cadillac. It was known at the time for its longer wheelbase and much smoother ride than previous models. It was also quite a popular mode of transport for certain criminal groups, if you catch my drift."

They did, of course. All except Greg, who had stopped listening at _Cadillac_.

"Oh my God." He groaned to himself, scrunching his eyes closed. "Of course!"

The team watched in baffled silence as he launched himself away from the bench and sprinted into the hallway, nearly taking out a group of idly chatting lab techs who stepped into his path.

"Something I said?" Hodges inquired, mildly offended by the unannounced departure.

When Greg rushed back in equally as fast, he was armed with his trusty textbook on Mafia History. It had become a staple tool of his investigation into Sara's disappearance and hadn't let him down yet.

"We've been focussing on the wrong gangster." He gushed, flicking frantically through the pages. "Roberto Masserio Senior was a famous name in the New York drugs trade of the 1980s. He got sent down at the same time as Raymond Acerbi."

"Yeah, that's how Raymond came to meet Bobby." Catherine frowned, moving around the table to see what had the young man so excited. He may be the most inexperienced of the group, but she was rapidly learning to trust his instincts where it mattered.

"Well, maybe Masserio Senior taught Ray a few tricks of the trade while in prison. He became famous for being able to transport certain items – mainly drugs and guns, but sometimes bodies as well – largely undetected around New York City."

"Oh yeah?" Nick raised an eyebrow inquisitively. "How'd he do that?"

Greg, having finally found the page he was searching for, spun the book around to show his colleagues.

"How else? In a hearse."

"Right." Warrick nodded, searching his hazy memory for the iconic mob stories he had grown up with. "I remember hearing about that. He used to stash them in coffins because he knew that no cop would ever stop a hearse with a coffin inside it."

"Okay, and this helps us how?" Grissom pressed, eternally mystified by the influx of ancient mafia trivia that this young boy seemed to spout.

"Don't you get it?" Greg asked, practically bouncing off the floor in his fervent desperation to make them understand. "Masserio had his own chain of funeral parlours which allowed him to launder his money _and_ transport his goods without coming to the attention of law enforcement. When he died in prison, it all went to his son – Bobby. The tyre tracks were from a 1972 Fleetwood Caddy. That's the same make Masserio used for his hearses."

"Wait, hold on." Nick stuttered, finally catching up. "You're saying Bobby used his father's old hearse to kidnap Sara and transport her out to the desert?"

"Yeah, and it gets worse."

He looked to Warrick to fill in the blanks, unable to utter the words himself.

"Oh." The CSI realised, all colour slowly draining from his face. "That's right. Masserio was known as Charon, or the Ferryman, because of his ability to make bodies disappear forever."

"How did he do that?" Hodges piped up again. He had been watching this exchange of information with silent confusion; but his curiosity finally overruled the pride that usually stopped him admitting to not understanding something. In this instance, his rare show of humility earned him a derisive look.

"He moved them in coffins ... how do you think he hid them?"

A cold stillness settled over the room as this information sank in and left the team with a heart-stopping feeling of dread.

"All those missing bodies, all those mysterious disappearances." Catherine mumbled, shaking her head. "What better way to get rid of a murdered corpse than..."

"Bury it." Grissom finished hollowly, the words falling like a lead weight as the reality of Sara's fate cut through them like a knife to the heart.


	19. July 13th 2004

**Well, this is it! I hope it's worth the wait!**

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Bruce Woodbury Beltway, Nevada**

It was a beautiful, blindingly bright morning as the procession of striped cars weaved their way out of Las Vegas and into the North-Eastern side of the city. Out here, there was nothing facing them but a sprawling barren desert and a glorious sunrise; with wispy clouds drifting across the sky, appearing silently and without warning.

For most of America, the day was just beginning to breathe; but the CSI team were already wide awake and holding their breath.

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Kyle Canyon Road, Nevada**

Raymond squinted through his sunglasses against the glare, swerving around the miniature sandstorms that danced and twirled in the middle of the vacant road.

He knew when Bobby didn't return that one of two things must have happened: the police had picked him up, or Sam Braun had extracted his own kind of justice.

Either way, he had evidently overstayed his welcome in Las Vegas. Bobby would forgive him for leaving – he would understand why it was the only option.

Adjusting the air-con, Ray glanced in his rear-view mirror and smiled at his precious cargo on the backseat.

"Quasi non ci." [_Nearly there._] He grinned to himself gleefully. "Non manca molto." [_Not long now._]

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Shadow Creek Cemetery, Nevada**

"How did you find this place?" Catherine yelled over the roar of the digger as its menacing teeth tore into the earth. The pile of abandoned dirt nearby cast a heavy shadow over them, but it was still desperately hot out here under the low morning sun.

"CCTV cameras lost the hearse at the intersection two blocks away. This was the nearest disused cemetery for eighteen blocks." Jim shouted back. "I also checked Bobby's phone records – he has done a lot of work with the agency that used to control this area. But no-one's been legitimately buried in here for a long time."

"Good place to start, I guess." Cath agreed, casting a glance around the graveyard. Even in broad daylight, it made her skin prickle with goosebumps. It felt, for lack of a better term, ghostly.

"Hey," Nick greeted, jogging over to join them. His brow was soaked with sweat, where he had been on his hands and knees scouring the cemetery for evidence. "I've been taking a look around; for an abandoned lot, some of these graves look pretty fresh to me."

The all turned simultaneously back towards the most recent burial spot, which was currently being ripped apart by the digger. There was a gravestone at the head of the rectangle, but the name etched into the weather-beaten stone had long-since worn away.

"We've got something!" The engineer's shout drew the whole team towards the gaping hole in the ground. At first glance, it still looked like an empty, muddy space; but peaking through they caught a glimpse of smooth red wood.

Without waiting for an invitation, Nick, Warrick and a handful of uniforms launched themselves in and began clawing at the disturbed soil. This thick desert-sand that had permanently mixed into the ground made it hard-going, but it was not long before their frantic actions revealed the distinctive carved lid of a new, contemporary coffin.

"This is it!" Nick shouted. "This is it, we found it!"

Grissom gingerly climbed down to join them, armed with a crowbar.

It quickly became apparent that the lid had been nailed down quite securely, but they were not going to be easily dissuaded.

At the top of the grave, Catherine and Greg shuffled and fidgeted impatiently while the boys grunted and heaved with all their strength; until the fierce seal finally gave up with a cantankerous, yawning creak.

The sight that met them immediately etched itself into their mind's eye, to stick with them forever.

Sara was laid on her back, her head tipped limply to one side. Dark, crimson blood oozing from a deep wound to her neck had stained her shirt and stood out in stark contrast to her deathly pale skin. Her hands were balled at her sides, as if poised to strike out at anyone who got too close.

But her eyes were closed, her features impassive and still.

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Kyle Canyon Road, Nevada**

Raymond gripped the steering wheel, clenching his jaw as the car rolled beyond his control across the coarse sand.

All he could see was intermittent flashes of gold between the white spots dancing on the back of his eyelids; and even when he finally came to a stop, all four tyres bouncing with the shock of the impact, his head continued to spin.

At first he couldn't register anything other than the fact that he was alive and seemingly still in one piece.

But, as he slowly regained control of his senses, he became aware of the distinctive sound of gravel crunching. It was rhythmic, getting louder and louder with each passing second.

Footsteps.

And then his battered and dented door was thrown open and a pair of expensive leather shoes appeared in his blurry vision.

"Per i peccati del padre, i bambini devono pagare il prezzo finale." [_For the sins of the father, the children shall pay the ultimate price._] A husky voice declared, as Raymond felt the familiar cold metal of a gun press against his temple. "Per i vostri peccati, ora si deve pagare il prezzo troppo." [_For your sins, now you shall pay that price too_.]

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Shadow Creek Cemetery, Nevada**

Ignoring instruction from the paramedics at the top of the hole, Warrick straddled the casket and carefully lifted Sara's lifeless body out. With help from Nick and a nameless rookie, they managed to lift her onto the damp, dew-covered grass with little effort.

In the cold light of day, her filthy, bloodstained t-shirt was a horrifying contradiction to the sparkling emerald green of the long-forgotten sward.

The EMTs were around her like a flash, with machines and wires and packets of blood that was just a little too red; while the team hovered fretfully over their shoulders.

"I've got a pulse!" One of them exclaimed with surprise. "It's very weak."

"She's lost a lot of blood." Another pointed out needlessly, for the evidence of that was still pooled in the velvet-lined coffin.

"We need to move her fast."

Greg had somehow managed to muscle in on their busy work and was desperately clutching the IV drip hooked up to her slender arm.

"Her blood type is B-negative." Grissom offered, and in the back of Catherine's mind she couldn't help wondering how he had come by such a random piece of information.

But her focus, and her gaze, remained latched onto Sara's stone cold, colourless face.

For all intents and purposes, she looked dead.

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital, Family Waiting Room**

They had arrived as one and crammed into the tiny, bare-bones relative's room. And when the door opened and a diminutive nurse stepped inside, they rose as one to greet her.

"Well, is she alright?" Grissom demanded before anyone else could find their voice.

"Miss Sidle sustained some very serious injuries." The nurse explained tentatively, mildly intimidated by the sheer number of intense eyes staring back at her. "But at the moment she is stable."

There was a brief sigh of relief over that word. Stable.  
><em>Secure<em> ... _strong_ ... _safe_.

"So, she's going to recover?" Cath pressed, twisting her dirt-stained hands nervously. The nurse visibly hesitated, biting her lower lip.

"She has a serious head injury and she lost a lot of blood from the wound to her throat. None of it appears life-threatening; however there is a concern about the potential for infections and we won't be able to know the full extent of her injuries until she wakes up."

The news was not exactly what they were hoping for and she knew it, but all she could do was offer the truth and a comforting smile.

"I'll keep you informed." She promised after her response was met with silence, before slipping out and leaving them to sink back into their ill-designed chairs.

"Well, it sounds like she should recover. Physically, anyway." Greg said, hoping to lessen the dark thoughts ricocheting around the claustrophobic space.

"Yeah." Warrick agreed, sliding down in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "But what about emotionally?"

"I don't know." Cath mumbled, pressing her hands to her lips in a wordless prayer. "I can't even think about that now."

Thankfully, she didn't have to for much longer as the depressing mood was sliced by the pinging of Grissom's cell. He flicked it open and scanned the text message hurriedly, his drooping eyes widening in shock.

"It's Brass." He stated, dragging his gaze from the screen to his team's inquisitive expressions. "They've found Raymond."

* * *

><p><strong>July 13<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Kyle Canyon Road, Nevada**

The howling of police sirens didn't appear to phase Angelo, as he continued to aim his weapon at the bloodied and bruised Raymond; who was holding himself up meekly on the hood of the smashed car.

"Hai ucciso mio padre!" [_You killed my father!_] Raymond yelled through his swollen and cracked lips, maintaining an indignant stance despite his perilous situation.

"Il padre andava a iniziare una guerra." [_Your father was going to start a war._] Angelo countered bitterly, his aged hand trembling as it levelled the gun. "Stava giocando con il fuoco e mi ha bruciato. La produttività aziendale." [_He was playing with fire and he got burnt. That's the business._]

"Bugiardo!" [_Liar!_] Ray spat. "Egli era un uomo buono, un marito. Stava cercando di unire le famiglie, non li separate." [_He was a good man, a husband. He was trying to unite the families, not separate them._]

Angelo choked out a rasping laugh, shaking his head in amusement. His hair was shorter now and more than a little peppered with grey, but still held its trademark wave.

"Ragazzo, non si sa che tuo padre era coinvolto in." [_Boy, you don't know what your father was involved in._]

"So che egli non era un assassino!" [_I know he wasn't a murderer!_]

By now, the police cars had reached them and came screaming to a halt a few feet away from the standoff.

Angelo re-aimed his weapon and brushed the trigger with his finger.

"Angelo Valentino!" Brass hollered, his own weapon quickly trained on the gangster. "Put the gun down and get on the ground!"

"Ha preso il mio nipote." [_He took my granddaughter._] The old man hissed angrily. "Egli ha minacciato la mia famiglia." [_He threatened my family._]

"Angelo!" Brass shouted again, inching closer; but the mobster continued to ignore him.

Raymond's lips spread, revealing a gory blood-stained grin.

"Ella era molto bella." [_She was very beautiful._] He crooned with a wistful nod. "Esso ha reso molto più difficile da fare. Ma, che l'azienda?" [_It made it so much harder to do._ _But,_ _that's the business,_ _right?_]

Angelo's midnight black eyes narrowed, his shaking fingers tightening around the gun.

"Figlio di puttana!" [_Son of a bitch!_]

"Angelo! Put the gun down!" Brass hollered a final time, but his words were drowned out by an explosive bang.

And even in the desert, everything seemed to stand still just for a moment.


	20. July 14th 2004

**I wanted this chapter to be longer, but I'm well aware that it's been too long since I updated, so I've split it into two chapters instead. Next one will be up ASAP**

* * *

><p><strong>July 14th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department<strong>

It was a case of move or be mowed down as Jim Brass barrelled his way through the corridor like a pitbull with a migraine.

He flung the interrogation room doors open and just stood there for a moment, his hip cocked to one side and his ice-coloured eyes narrowed and piercing as they searched the tiny space, eventually settling on the man sitting quietly behind the table.

"Angelo Valentino." He stated each syllable individually, with a cold precision that would make most ordinary people shiver. "It's about damn time you showed up. But at least you didn't miss the party."

Angelo tore his gaze from the staring contest he'd been engaged in with Warrick to blink lazily at the detective.

"Non ho niente da dire." He muttered, glancing away and pretending to examine his fingernails.

Jim scoffed, dropping heavily into his seat, causing the legs to squeak harshly across the scuffed floor.

"Now come on, I'm not buying this 'Non inglese' thing; so let's try again, shall we?"

Angelo rolled his eyes, but straightened up a little and folded his hands on the table.

"That man deserved to die." He said with a thick, Mediterranean accent. "He murdered my granddaughter."

Warrick and Brass shared a grim sideways glance, but elected to say nothing.

"You mean the granddaughter that you abandoned?" Warrick asked instead. "The one you left to rot in foster care after you hired a hit on her father?"

Angelo's dry lips turned into a cunning smile.

"You ought to watch what you say, Boy." He warned . "People might take offence."

"People like you?" Warrick challenged, unthreatened. Again, Angelo just smiled.

"Hey." Jim slammed his palm on the table top, regaining the mobster's attention. "Now, you may not give a damn about your granddaughter, but I do. So, tell me, why would Raymond want to hurt her?"

His nonchalance quickly fading, a dark look crossed Angelo's features; and it was clear to see why men so often ran in fear of this man. He tipped his head to the side, mulling over the question for a few seconds.

"Because I murdered his father."

* * *

><p><strong>December 30<strong>**th****, 1958 - - The Peppermint Lounge, New York**

"Gentlemen, I'm glad that you changed your minds." Joey greeted cheerfully, sinking into the narrow booth with a breathless wheeze. "I hope you'll excuse my tardiness. I was ... otherwise engaged."

The three men facing him shared a knowing look. The upcoming Acerbi wedding was the talk of New York's criminal underworld and the bright glow emanating off the man's cheeks was a clear indicator of what had had him so 'engaged'.

Sam cleared his throat, spinning a glass of whiskey impatiently between his hands.

"We're agreeing to your plan." He began, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard. "But, we need to be careful. If Tony gets wind of this, we'll all be dead."

"You leave Tony to me." Joey brushed the concern aside. "I can deal with him."

"I want to see proof of that." Angelo, the most short-tempered of the group, challenged sceptically.

"I can't give you proof." Joey admitted, delving into his pocket and extracting a cigar. "But, I can give you something."

Having lit up, he went back to his pocket and this time dropped the contents onto the table.

Three casino chips fell, like individual hailstones, onto the table and danced in small circles before clattering in a heap.

"What's this?" Angelo asked, picking up one of the chips and examining it.

"Insurance." Joey stated, exhaling a neat ring of smoke across the table. "Once we're done, you'll get the rest."

The three men tried to hide their combined disquiet as they each claimed a chip and stashed it in their pockets. They wouldn't see the rest, of course. But that didn't matter – this wasn't about the money for them.

Joey remained oblivious to their uneasy silence as he squinted at the tiny hands on his pocket watch.

"Well, gentlemen." He stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray and promptly lit up another, before awkwardly unfolding himself from the booth. "It's been fun. I look forward to doing more business with you. Buona salute, signori." [_Good health, gentlemen._]

The three of them watched him sail through the crowded bar, clearly very pleased with himself and his 'business'. None of them spoke; not until the door opened, drawing swirls of wispy snow into the dingy room.

"Well," Angelo pursed his lips, catching the eyes of his companions. "Ciò che è fatto è fatto." [_What's done is done_.]

Nino raised his tumbler of brandy, toasting the sentiment.

"Per non dimenticare," [_Lest we forget_,] He drawled in a husky tone. "Non si deve voltare le spalle alla sua famiglia, i suoi nemici." [_One must_ _never turn his back on his family, or his enemies_.]

* * *

><p><strong>July 14th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C<strong>

"Nino may have pulled the trigger, but we all loaded the gun." He shrugged calmly. "Joseph had to die. A man must pay for his sins."

"Ah, is that why you shot Raymond?" Warrick enquired; and the hard glaze returned to Angelo's midnight-black eyes.

"He deserved to die. He took my granddaughter."

"Yeah, he took her," Brass agreed with a callous tone. "He took her because of you."

"Non è vero. He took her for revenge."

"He took her and he put her in a box in the ground, because of you!" Brass was out of his seat by now and brandishing a finger in the man's face. "He tried to kill her because you killed his father!"

Angelo barely flinched at the accusation levelled at him, but one eyebrow arched slowly in question.

"Tried?" He repeated. "Lei è viva?"

"Yeah, she's alive." Brass spat. "No thanks to you."

This information, in spite of its brutal delivery, seemed to satisfy the aging gangster; who settled back in his chair and crossed his legs.

"A volte ciò che la vita prende con una mano dà con un altro." He muttered, the switch back to his mother tongue suggesting he had said all he wanted to.

Brass continued to state at him, until it was painfully clear that the interview was over.

"Alright." He hissed, shoving his chair back and stalking to the door. "Get rid of this joker." He instructed over his shoulder.

Warrick stood up too, but he hovered in the doorway for a moment longer.

"Oh Angelo," he called out to the now-handcuffed man. "In case you're wondering, Sara's not the only one who survived. I'll, uh, give Raymond your regards, shall I?"

Angelo instinctively tried to lurch closer, but a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder and halted his movements. Warrick hid a laugh, glad of the small victory. He knew enough about the Cosa Nostra to understand that the only thing they hated more than a hit to their family, was a hit to their pride.

And failure to kill a man from five feet away would be pretty embarrassing to any mobster worth his salt.

As the door swung shut behind Warrick, leaving Angelo stood chained and guarded in the tiny space, the true realisation of his fate sank in and he swung out an arthritic leg to kick his chair across the room.

"Bastardo!"

* * *

><p><strong>February 28<strong>**th****, 1984 - - Modesto Courthouse, California **

The words seemed to reverberate around the room, absorbed only by the shocked murmurs of a small gathering of crusading women in the back of the court.

_Twenty years._

That was a long time. A lifetime.

Dylan dropped his head into his hands, a strangled sob dying in his throat. His conscience, he mused, choking him.

When he finally looked up, his blonde locks ruffled and sticking out in all directions, he could have sworn that he caught his mother's eye; just for a second, before she was lead into the dark abyss of the cells. Laura's eyes were glazed, her body language suggesting that she was hardly even aware of the furore around her or the heavy sentence that had just been handed down on her head.

Then again, perhaps it was better that way.

A couple of rows in front of him, oblivious to his presence, his little brother and sister were staring sadly at the ever-diminishing figure of their mom being taken away for good. Once the activity in the courtroom died down, they would be taken out of separate doors; back to their respective foster homes on opposite sides of the sprawling city.

Seth, to the deeply religious couple who would proceed to stamp out any trace of the bubbly performer in him and replace it with a deep-seated fear of showing his true character, lest he be slapped with a derogatory label.

And Sara, to the abusive part-time lawyer and his pathetic wife who continually turned a blind eye to the poor girl's suffering.

Dylan slipped out of the row of seats, intent on disappearing before either of his siblings could catch a glimpse of him.

However, he barely got two steps across the ancient wooden floorboards before he came to a sudden stop.

He hadn't seen the man for several years, not since his father's behaviour had turned violent and his mother's moods went off the chart. But he recognised him instantly. The long wavy locks, the piercing eyes, the imposing figure. That man was his grandfather.

Angelo's gaze, like the rest of the disintegrated family, had been fixed on Laura; but it quickly darted to Dylan's face, which remained frozen in shock.

For a moment, they just stared. Then, without so much as a word or a flicker of emotion, Angelo stood up and strode out of the courtroom; leaving Dylan standing alone as the true events of that fateful night sank in and shattered any tiny sense of naive ignorance left in the boy's life.


	21. July 14th 2004 (cont)

**July 14th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room A/B**

Dylan had been hunched over the table for forty minutes; his only movements the rhythmic shuddering of his shoulders as he sobbed into his hands.

But at the sound of the door opening, he lifted his head and blinked at the visitor through wide, tear-laden eyes.

"Well?" He sniffed.

"We found her. She's alive, sedated at Desert Palms hospital. We're still waiting for her to wake up."

Nick's response had been rushed, as if he felt like he had to give as much information as possible in order to reassure the man; as well as himself. But Dylan hadn't heard anything after 'alive'. A relieved sob stumbled out of him and he clamped a hand over his mouth to prevent any further cries from escaping.

"Thank you." He managed to whisper through his trembling fingers. "Can ... can I see her?"

Nick paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

"Maybe later, when she's stronger." He decided at last. "Anyway, I think there's someone else you ought to see first."

Dylan's reaction to the good news had been pretty much the same as his brother's. Emotional, tearful. Relieved. That much was to be expected. However, if Nick was anticipating a warm reunion between the brothers, he was going to be very disappointed.

Seth was still reeling from his elation at hearing that his sister was alive; but his expression quickly soured upon seeing Dylan. The older sibling's face, meanwhile, fell somewhere between shocked and shamefaced.

"Hey Seth," he greeted awkwardly. "Good news, huh?"

Seth's hands had balled into white-knuckled fists at his side and he narrowed his eyes sullenly in response to the comment.

"Good news?" He choked out, stalking across the small room. "She's unconscious, barely alive, all because you led them down some dead-end lie about dad's death?"

Everyone expected him to come to a stop in front of Dylan, but he kept on moving and landed a blow square on his brother's jaw. Dylan recoiled, stunned by the unprovoked assault.

"Whoa, whoa; time out." Nick gently pushed them apart, but his attempt to calm the situation was quickly dismissed by them both.

"Your arm's getting stronger." Dyl half-joked, rubbing the injured spot gingerly with his rough palm.

"Fuck off, Dylan." Seth spat. "Go back to whatever rock you crawled out from."

"Hey, I just want to see Sara." He held up his hands defensively. "I mean, she's going to need her big bro's to help her get through this, right?"

Seth scoffed bitterly, beginning to pace around the table. His golden hair was beginning to resemble Dylan's more and more with every stressed hand he dragged through it.

"She doesn't need you in her life. She's _my_ sister; _I'll_ take care of her."

"She's my sister, too." Dylan pointed out in a wounded voice.

"Yeah, for all the good it's done her over the years." Seth muttered. "She'd have been better off if you'd stayed lost the first time you ran away."

Dylan scowled, his pale cheeks starting to flame with anger.

"Hey, you have no fucking idea how much I went through for you two growing up!" He snarled, brandishing a finger. "I wanted to stay away; but I came back for you!"

"No one asked you to!"

Seth's embittered response was met with an unintelligible roar as Dyl launched at him and pinned the smaller man against the table. The sturdy furniture scraped across the floor, emitting a pained squeal.

"I took beatings for you, I defended you, I got my ass kicked every fucking night so you two didn't have to!" Dylan growled, repeatedly slamming his brother's back into the wood with each increasingly irate word.

"Yeah, well nice job you did there!" Seth retaliated, unfazed by the violent attack. "Have you already forgotten the nights Sara used to sneak into our beds because she was in so much pain that she couldn't sleep? Because I sure as hell haven't!"

Nick had been almost mesmerised by the evenly-matched scuffle, but the mention of his friend's name seemed to snap him back and he hurriedly lunged forwards to separate the warring boys.

"Alright, I think it's time to go." He managed to extract Dylan and practically threw him towards the door. "Seth, sit down!"

"Wait!" Dylan sniffled, wiping at his streaming nose with the stained cuff of his shirt sleeve. "Seth, I..."

"Just get lost, Dyl." Seth, having sunk miserably into the chair, answered before he could finish the thought. Though his demeanour still emanated waves of fury, his voice was low and sad. "Sara's alive. Isn't that enough for you?"

Dylan dropped his gaze, letting a lone tear creep down his cheek and drop over the bruised curve of his chin.

"Yeah," he cleared his throat hoarsely. "I guess it'll have to be."

* * *

><p><strong>July 14<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital**

"Raymond!" Brass clapped his hands together loudly, causing Ray to wince as a shot of pain coursed through his skull. "How are we feeling?"

"Ho mal di testa." The man declared grumpily, slinking further down his bed as if the thin blankets could protect him from the detective's harsh voice.

"Yeah, that's too bad?" Brass shrugged heartlessly. He didn't know what Raymond had said, but he could take a reasonable guess. "But hey, good news. The doctors fixed you up real good, so you can go to trial."

Raymond turned slowly to face his two visitors. His eyes were like slits, but whether it was because of anger or pain was anyone's guess.

Grissom still hadn't spoken, but he cocked his head to the side and examined the patient from a distance. He was less threatening than Gil had imagined; small and pale with a world-weary expression that mapped a lifetime of heartache and acrimony.  
>Then again, he was wearing a paper-thin hospital gown and Gil wasn't chained to a wall acting as a human ransom, so who was he to judge?<p>

"Yeah, see, we know about your little scam." Brass continued with a dry chuckle, resting his hands on the bed rails. The intrusion to Ray's personal space earned the detective a petulant scowl, not that he noticed. "That was pretty clever, using Bobby's family business to hide the evidence. After all, it worked for Bobby Senior, right? Using a legitimate funeral business to launder his money _and_ get rid of his enemies through legal funerals. I mean, if you think about it, it's genius."

"Genius." Raymond repeated, a husky chuckle dying in the midst of a violent coughing fit.

"Yeah. Except, this isn't New York; and it's not the 1970s. So what happened, Ray? The desert get full?"

There was a long pause while Raymond mulled over this like it was a complicated puzzle.

"For the sins of the father, the children shall pay the ultimate price." He decided at last.

"Huh." That had not been the answer Brass expected, but he rolled with it. "Or the grandchildren, in Sara's case, right?"

Grissom, who until now had been silently scrutinising their suspect from afar, stepped up to the bottom of the bed.

"You spent your whole life paying for your father's sins." He guessed, raising a solitary eyebrow in question. "He died before you were born, and your mother had to struggle to raise you alone. So, when you went to prison and found out what had really happened to him, you decided to get revenge."

Raymond appeared marginally more intrigued by the scientist than he had been by the police officer. His piercing eyes searched Grissom from head to toe before he decided on his reply.

"La vendetta è l'ultimo rifugio per l'uomo che non può lasciare andare il passato." He nodded slowly, the tip of his tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. "Revenge is the last refuge for the man who cannot let go of the past."

"That's very true." Grissom conceded. "But that's not going to help you in court. You're still a murderer."

"Murder?" Ray enquired, peculiarly composed despite the heinous accusation. "I understood it that the girl survived?"

"Oh, Sara's alive." Jim confirmed, his tone dropping an octave. "But I've been looking into some of your past acquaintances; and some of them are proving difficult to get hold of. Then again, I suppose it's hard to answer the phone when you're buried in a graveyard in the desert."

"No bodies, no murder." Raymond pointed out, a hint of smugness beginning to creep through the weak and injured facade he was so brazenly putting across.

"Usually." Brass pursed his lips, leaning so close that Ray could practically feel each word cutting through his skin. "But don't worry, because we're going to dig up every grave in Las Vegas if we have to; and then_ you're_ going to spend the rest of _your_ life in a small, cramped box."

To their surprise, Raymond laughed; throwing his head back into the mound of pillows propping him up.

"È uno spreco di tempo. I've played this game before. You can't tie me to any murder."

"Maybe you're right." Grissom shrugged, his persistent calmness beginning to unsettle the gangster. "But it doesn't matter. We've still got you for kidnapping and attempted murder. That's enough to get you a life sentence without parole in Nevada."

For the first time, Raymond seemed worried by the prospect that he might be returning to a cell; but he hid it behind a coy grin.

"Well, gentlemen." He crooned, starting to stretch and suddenly thinking better of it when arrows of pain began darting down his arm from his shattered shoulder. "This has been fun, but if you don't mind, I'd like to get some rest now. Being shot is not all it's cracked up to be, you know."

"No." Jim agreed idly, trailing behind the CSI towards the door. "Neither is getting your throat cut."

Outside, they closed the door with an unnecessarily loud slam and turned to sigh at each other. They had been friends long enough that neither really needed to say a word; but Brass voiced his dissatisfaction anyway.

"Well, that was helpful."

"It was a long shot." Grissom shrugged. "You didn't really expect him to tell you where he'd buried all his victims right off the bat, did you?"

"No, but it would have been nice." Brass chuckled, shaking his head.

"We've got all the evidence we need to put him away for what he did to Sara." Gil continued. "That's all I really care about right now."

Brass turned to glance down the corridor the mention of the brunette's name.

"Is Catherine still standing guard?" He enquired, jerking his head in the direction of the ICU.

"No, Greg's with Sara." Grissom corrected. "Cath said she had something she needed to do."

Brass nodded, a contemplative look crossing his face. A small smile twitched at Gil's lips, as he realised what was coming next.

"Maybe I'll pop my head in and see how she's doing, just for a minute." Jim said, right on cue. "I'll meet you at the car?"

Grissom was already moving towards the exit, rolling his eyes knowingly.

"I'll get a cab."

He turned at the end of the ward and the two shared a familiar smile.

As soon as Jim set eyes on Sara's fragile, wounded body, he wouldn't be able to drag himself from her side.

* * *

><p><strong>July 14<strong>**th****, 2004 - -Sara Sidle's apartment **

There was a knock at the door, but she was so submerged in her actions that she never noticed until the vacuum cleaner whirred to a slow stop and she glanced up to find a tall figure dangling the plug in the air.

"Hey." Warrick greeted hoarsely.

"Oh, hi." She breathed, relieved to realise who the intruder was. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you that." He pointed out, gesturing to the apartment. She mimicked his actions, frowning at the apparent absurdity of the question.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm cleaning."

"Why?"

"Because." She shrugged, beginning to wind the vacuum cleaner cable back up. "Because I want her to feel comfortable when she comes home." Warrick strode across the room and stopped her, his large hands blanketing her own.

"Cath," he chastised softly. "You know that she might not be coming back here for a while, right?"

Catherine stilled, dropping her shoulders. After a few seconds, she sank heavily onto the nearest chair.

"I know." She admitted sadly. "I just felt so helpless at the hospital, staring at that damn ventilator. I needed to feel like I was actually doing something."

Warrick nodded in understanding, perching on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

"I just feel like all of this could have been avoided." She sighed. "Dylan was living in such fear because of his father's death that he almost got his sister killed. And Raymond was so obsessed with his father's death that he_ tried_ to kill her. And all because of what? Some mobster vendetta from forty years ago?"

"What's your point?" Warrick pressed.

"Oh, I don't know." She breathed, tipping her head back. "I just think it's pretty sad that it came to this. And Sara ... she probably didn't know anything about this, yet she's the one who's paying the price for it."

"No she's not." Warrick squeezed her knee gently. "She's going to get over this. Raymond's going to pay the price."

"Maybe." She agreed, largely unconvinced. An increasingly frequent thought began making its way back to the forefront of her mind, but thankfully she was saved from voicing it by the distinctive sound of scratching.

They both turned towards the glass doors, where Sara's squirrel was doing an impatient little dance on the balcony. Cath chuckled, standing up to let him in.

"Hey buddy." She greeted as he scuttled inside, his sharp claws clicking across the wooden floor.

"Greg wasn't kidding about this little guy." Warrick laughed as the tiny animal bounced in circles around him, sniffing the new stranger with curiosity.

"She's certainly got him tamed." Cath mused, sinking onto the couch and throwing her head back against the cushions.

Warrick abandoned his teasing of the animal and carefully stepped over him to join her on the seat.

"God Rick, what are we going to do if she doesn't pull through this?"

Warrick wanted to answer that. He wanted to say that it wasn't something they needed to worry about, because Sara _would_ pull through. But he just couldn't.

Instead, realising that nothing he could say was going to appease his downcast colleague anyway, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and dragged her into an unwilling hug.

"Look, why don't you leave this for now." He suggested, pressing a kiss into her hair. "It's not like she's going to be coming out of hospital tomorrow, you know."

"I know. I just want to feel like I'm doing something useful."

"So, go stay with her." He pushed. "Sara needs our support right now, more than anything else. You'll do more good for her at the hospital then you will here dusting her bookshelves."

Catherine laughed, a sound which took them both by surprise. It was something neither had heard for far too long.

"Yeah," she agreed softly, wiping away her tear tracks. "I guess you're right."

She sat forward and clicked her tongue at the squirrel, who was currently examining the vacuum cleaner with great intrigue.

"That means you're going to have to go back outside, little pal." She hummed. "But don't worry; she'll be back real soon."

"Yeah, of course she will." Warrick grinned, extending a tentative finger to scratch the creature's furry head. "Especially when she finds out someone's been in here cleaning without her permission." He shot Catherine a sideways glance, glad to see that familiar cocky grin back in place on her lips.


	22. July 15th 2004

**I don't know about everyone else, but I've had some problems getting onto Fanfiction using Firefox; so I hope that this posts!**

* * *

><p><strong>July 15<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Tangiers Hotel and Casino**

Warrick was right; and Catherine fully intended to go back to the hospital, but she had to make a small detour on the way.

"Why'd you do it, Sam?"

He looked up wearily from his desk, the stress of the day written all over his weathered face amid a mix of relief and exasperation.

"Muggs." His greeting was hoarse, as if his throat had been lined with sandpaper. Whatever the police had said to him in interrogation, it had had an effect.

"You knew she was missing. You could have gotten her killed."

"That wasn't my intention." He assured her, heaving himself up and stepping around the large table. His movements were slow and stiff, like he'd been cramped up somewhere. But she couldn't allow herself to feel sorry for him.

"I was trying to protect myself; and you."

"Oh, don't give me that!" She spat bitterly. "You were looking out for number one. But then, why should I be surprised. Heaven forbid you should put someone else's welfare above your own, for once."

Sam ducked his head, the shame on his face almost reaching his eyes.

"Your friend, she's alive?" He enquired.

"Barely." Cath agreed, her voice beginning to crack despite her best efforts to remain unmoved during this altercation. "He slit her throat."

"I'm sorry to hear that. If she needs anything, you let me know." Sam said gallantly.

Catherine blinked at him for a minute, trying to deduce what exactly he was offering. Of course, with Sam Braun it could only be one thing.

"She doesn't need money, Sam." She realised with shock. "She needs a miracle!"

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there." He tried to smile, but it was met with an icy stare; so he changed tack. "What about you? What do you need?"

She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"What do I need?" She repeated rhetorically. "I need you to go back in time and fix this!"

He chuckled softly, holding out his hands emptily.

"If I could, I would."

Cath narrowed her eyes, her shoulder-length waves bouncing and curling with each involuntary shiver at his emotionless sentiments.

"I don't know what you want me to say. You're my little girl, Catherine. If that had been you, I would have done everything I could to save you."

"Yeah, well Sara's our little girl. She's _my_ girl – didn't that mean anything to you?"

"I didn't realise she meant so much to you." He frowned, puzzled by her sudden attachment to this woman. He would recognise the brunette from the TV, or from occasional scenes she had worked with Catherine. But he honestly couldn't recall his daughter ever mentioning her by name until all of this happened.

"Well, she does." Cath scowled, perturbed by the insinuation that Sara was not important enough to her for Sam to care about. "And thanks to you, she could have died! She still could!"

"I'm sorry." He reached out towards her, but she took a step back. "I've offered to help, I've told the police everything I know. What more do you want?"

"I don't want anything from you, Sam." She stated, delving into her pocket. "I came to give you this back."

He accepted the piece of paper and unfurled it, his heart sinking at the familiar numbers neatly printed across the top.

"Muggs..."

"I don't want it." She insisted. "I've seen what happens when people accept money from mobsters."

"I told you, no strings." He promised, attempting to give the cheque back to her. He knew that she had cashed the one he gave her, but she obviously hadn't spent it yet.

"Yeah? I bet Angelo Valentino said that to Max and Laura too, before he had Max murdered."

Sam's expression fell and he slumped back despondently. The old oak desk gave out a heavy creak as he rested his entire frame against it.

"What can I say to make you trust me?" He asked meekly.

Catherine had already begun to make her way to the door, where she stopped and spun on her heel, staring him down.

"Words are cheap, Sam."

He watched her sail out, his gaze falling to the cheque she had pressed into his hands.

Words may be cheap, but apparently two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars wasn't even enough to fix their fractured relationship.

* * *

><p><strong>June 27<strong>**th****, 1975 - - Las Vegas Strip, alleyway **

Sam glanced around the corner, checking that he was definitely alone.

Up ahead, he could see his target leaning casually against a wall, a plume of cigarette smoke the only proof that he was not merely another shadow in the dim alley.

"Michael." Sam called out; and the man started.

"Sam?" He squinted, trying to make out the man's features in the dark. "What are you doing out here?"

Sam's heels clicked across the concrete, and Mickey's heart rate began to increase with each step. It was a silly question, really. There was only one reason you met a man in a dark alley in this town, and it wasn't for a private chat about business.

"Michael." He repeated, coming a stop just behind the shard of light streaming down from a street lamp on the other side of the road. He was too far away to hit Mickey, but he was still close enough to shoot him and not miss. "I have something to say to you."

"Okay, so say it." Mickey pressed. He pushed himself off the wall and dropped his cigarette to the ground, where it smouldered in a puddle of standing rain water. His nerves were dancing a frantic jig in his stomach, but he was too stubborn to let them show. Sam took another step closer, his stern expression finally revealed to Mickey.

"That girl that you're supposed to be meeting out here?" He enquired with an eerily calm tone. "You're not going to see her tonight."

"What is this? A personally delivered break-up?" Mickey laughed in disbelief. Sam grinned, his perfect line of pristine white teeth glowing like ivories in the reflected light.

"No, it's a warning." He crooned. "If you ever touch my daughter, if you lay one finger on her, I'll tear you apart."

There was a long moment of silence as the threat hung between them, suspended like a spider's web – invisible in the shadows, but deadly once you stepped into it.

Finally, in a bold move that did not match the butterflies in his gut, Mickey began walking in slow, measured steps towards the older mogul.

"Well, your daughter is very beautiful." He stated. "It's hard to resist something so ... tempting."

Sam lurched forward with a quick action that startled Mickey into stumbling backwards, but Braun's hands remained at his side.

"You want to test me?" He asked, checking his watch. "It's quarter to two. Catherine's supposed to meet you in fifteen minutes. I'll be watching."

He whirled around, not missing the opportunity to flash the weapon holstered at his hip, and strode purposefully back towards the casino.

Mickey remained rooted to the spot, his heart still pounding in his chest. It took a big pair to threaten him – in fact, this was a first in his books.

Ultimately, it was a simple decision. Was he willing to risk his life in order to taste the sweet innocence of a sixteen-year-old's kiss?

* * *

><p><strong>July 15<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital, ICU**

The heavy door gave way with a deep wheeze and Catherine slipped inside; but the hulking figure hunched at the foot of Sara's bed was not who she expected to see.

"Mitch?" She frowned. "Where's Greg?"

"He was dead on his feet." Officer Mitchell straightened up. "I told him to go home and get some rest."

In all honestly, the cop didn't look much more alert himself; but she decided against voicing the thought and instead inched tentatively towards the patient.

"How is she?"

"Still." He noted sadly. "Hasn't moved an inch since I got here."

The officer was a staple figure around Las Vegas PD. He had worked there for as long as Cath could remember; and in all that time she had never seen a chink in his sturdy shell.

But today, he looked utterly at a loss of what to do.

Catherine knew that Sara, alongside many other CSIs, genuinely liked having Mitch around. Where many uniforms had developed an attitude when it came to the scientists and their expensive toys, Mitch saw himself as a protector of criminalists. A guardian angel of sorts.

She also knew that Mitch had a particular soft spot for the brunette; and to see her like this must be killing him as much as it was the rest of the team.

She tossed her jacket onto the chair beside the bed and deflated into it.

"I wish there was something else I could do." She exhaled, throwing her hands up. "The suspects aren't talking. I tried working on the evidence, but I can't keep my mind focussed on anything, I can't sleep..."

"Hey," Mitch strode around the bed and placed a firm hand on her arm. "Sara's a tough lady; she's going to come through this in one piece." He promised sternly.

Cath dragged her gaze from Sara's colourless face and attempted a grateful smile.

"I hope you're right, Mitch." She pursed her lips tightly, fighting off the flurry of conflicting emotions surging to the surface. "I really do."

* * *

><p><strong>July 16<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital, ICU**

By the time Officer Mitchell's shift started, leaving Catherine by herself with the comatose patient, it was nearly daylight.

The sound of the door opening didn't catch her attention at first. Nurses had been flitting in and out all night, checking wires and bandages and tubes. Catherine tried to block them out, tried to convince herself that they were at the lab and Sara was just catching a few minutes sleep in the break room.

But this time, it wasn't a nurse coming to change her IV drip. The rhythmic click shadowing each footfall was the give-away. She turned, blinking through tears she hadn't even noticed were falling.

"Hey Catherine." Doc Robbins greeted softly. For an achingly long minute, they just stared mutely across the room. Eventually, Cath's senses kicked back in and she resumed her position watching over the bed.

"They say she's going to make it." She sniffed, using her sleeve to dab delicately at her puffed-up eyes.

"I know." He cleared his throat, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed. "I accosted her doctor on my way in."

Catherine had regained her vice-like hold on Sara's hand and was staring determinedly at her face, as if she could wake the girl up simply by the force of her will-power.

"You don't seem as happy as I'd expect about that." He noted with mild perplexity, placing a hand over their conjoined ones.

"No, I am. Of course I am." Cath scowled, shaking her head. "It's just ... we have no idea how this has affected her. When Nick examined the inside lid of the coffin, he found scratches. She was conscious and fighting to get out ... I can't even begin to imagine how terrified she must have been."

Her tears had returned, her words barely stumbling out through hiccuped sobs.

Doc shifted, using his free hand to push himself further onto the bed.

"When that truck hit my car, I thought I was going to die."

It was an odd place to start, but it got her attention. She glanced up, cocking her head to the side. In all the years she had known the coroner, he had never spoken of the accident that robbed him of his lower limbs.

"And then, when I woke up in hospital without my legs, I wished I _had_ died. I was deeply depressed; I thought my life was over. But I dealt with it," he paused, considering his words carefully. "I adjusted. And so will Sara."

"Yeah." She agreed hoarsely. "But you had family, your wife. Sara has two delinquent brothers and a schizophrenic mother."

"I'd hardly called Nick and Warrick delinquents." He quipped, drawing a tiny smile from Catherine. "Okay, so her family's a mess; but Sara has everything she needs right here. You, the boys – even Grissom, in his own strange little way."

Cath laughed, subconsciously squeezing Sara's hand tighter.

"Yeah, I guess she does."

"You guess?" He echoed, not willing to let it drop. "You guys haven't slept in ten days. You've worked night and day to find her. You're here now. That's all that's going to matter to her."

"I hope you're right." She mumbled.

There was a beat of silence that was only interrupted by the constant whirring of Sara's breathing apparatus.

"Warrick said you were going to see Sam." Doc pressed at last when she didn't speak again.

"Yeah, I ..." she threw her head back. "I don't know what I was thinking. I had hoped that he might have given me some sign that he was trying to help Sara. But ..." she trailed off, shaking the thought away. "No, it doesn't matter. As long as she gets better, that's all that matters."

They had become so engrossed in their conversation; neither noticed the gradual tightening of Sara's grip around their conjoined fingers.

So it came as a complete shock when her hand disappeared from beneath theirs and they both snapped their heads around to face her.

Her eyes were barely open, blinded by the harsh lights beaming down on her; but her chest was rising and falling faster, as she desperately tried to suck in short panicked breaths through the tube in her throat.

Catherine was out of her seat in a flash, one hand flying to her friend's chest in an attempt to slow her respiration down.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." She hushed softly. "You're okay, sweetheart."

Sara's eyes, slowly adjusting to the sterile illumination above her, flicked to Catherine's face and for a long moment she just stared; as if trying to place the features looking back at her.

Then, as if recognition of her surroundings finally kicked in, her whole body relaxed and she fumbled hurriedly for Catherine's hand again.

"It's alright, baby." The older woman smiled, caressing the bruised and scratched skin tenderly. "We've got you now. You're safe."

"Just slow your breathing down, Sara." Doc Robbins added, one hand resting ever-so lightly on her hip. "You're going to be okay."

Whether it was the effort of waking up or the calming reassurance from her friends, Sara's eyes began to drift closed again; but her grip remained unyielding as she held on to Catherine with all her strength.

"Sar?" Cath called out hopefully, but the young woman had already drifted off again. The ventilator returned to normal rhythm and her features relaxed beneath the intrusive tube taped across her face.

"Well, you've convinced her." Doc noted softly. "What about yourself? Are you satisfied that she's safe yet?"


	23. July 16th 2004

**Just to explain Brass' reference in this chapter, Jakie Freedman was the founder or the Sands Casino and Frank refers to Frank Sinatra, who had a stake in the Casino for a few years. **

* * *

><p><strong>July 16th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C<strong>

The hospital had insisted that he was fit enough to leave, having done all they could to treat his minor injury. Yet, despite their assurances, Raymond still appeared to be in considerable pain.

However, as Jim Brass and Gil Grissom took their seats at the table opposite and began preparing their notes, he straightened up in his chair; evidently determined to hide his discomfort behind a mask of indifference.

"Gentleman." He nodded. During their last encounter, Grissom had assumed his gravelly voice was a result of his recent surgery; but apparently he always sounded as though he was speaking through a tube of sandpaper.

This fact seemed to escape Jim, as he whipped out a photograph and slapped it down in the centre of the table.

"You know what Raymond, I don't want to waste any more energy on you; so I'm going to cut right to the chase. That CCTV photo was taken the day Sara went missing."

Raymond's lawyer - a skeletal, shifty-looking figure with sharp, pointed features and lips so thin they were almost invisible – peered down ambivalently at the image. It was grainy, as most CCTV footage was, but the midnight black hearse gunning it through a red light was unmistakable.

"I gotta say, for a car with a dead body inside, Bobby was really in a hurry to be somewhere." The detective mused, though his piercing eyes never shifted from those of the gangster. "Except that wasn't a dead body. That was my CSI."

"Questo significa niente per me." Raymond drawled impatiently, glancing away. Brass' mouth curled into a snarl.

"Counsel, you ought to warn your client about his insolence. Don't make me get a translator in here."

The lawyer ducked his head towards Ray and muttered something indistinguishable. Raymond sighed heavily in response to whatever he was being told, but dutifully recited his last statement in English.

"Bobby's actions are no concern of mine." He stated.

"No? Okay, explain that then." Jim cocked an eyebrow, producing another image.

This time, the photo was taken in the dark but with a much higher resolution speed camera. High enough, apparently, for Archie to clear it up and get a good shot of the driver.  
>When Raymond still appeared unconcerned by the evidence, Brass delved into his manila folder a final time and threw a third photograph bitterly towards their suspect.<p>

It was one Catherine had, reluctantly, taken of Sara in the hospital right after her surgery. She was as white as the sheets draped across her fragile frame and the bandage taped to her neck was stained with clotted blood. Even the breathing tube plastered across her face couldn't hide the massive bruising she had sustained during her ordeal.

"These don't implicate my client." The lawyer scoffed dismissively, shoving them away. However, to everyone's surprise, Raymond's hand shot out to grip his wrist tightly and stop the motion.

"No." He ordered sharply, taking the photo of Sara and examining it closely. The lawyer's expression belayed his concern at the mobster's action, and he audibly swallowed.

"Miss Sidle's injuries are tragic." He noted, a blatant attempt at damage control. "But if all you have is a doctored image of my client driving a dark limo-style car through Las Vegas on the evening in question, then..."

"It wasn't ever supposed to be like that." Ray interrupted his spiel, his dark eyes scouring the photo for something that he obviously wasn't seeing. "They gave me no choice."

"Who's they?" Grissom sat forward with intrigue.

"Don't say another word." The lawyer hissed, but Raymond chose to ignore him.

"I thought Bobby was dead. I thought Sam had killed him. I had to do something."

"So, you slit her throat and buried her in a coffin?" Brass barked angrily, his knuckles beginning to turn white on the table top. "What kind of sick bastard does that?"

"My client is not a healthy man, and he was recently shot." The lawyer stood up and placed a firm hand on Ray's shoulder to silence any further self-derogatory comments he may make. "His statements would never hold up in court. And unless you have something more substantial than that CCTV photo to connect him to this crime then ..."

"Sit down." Brass barked. "We're not done here. Unless you can explain why your client was present at every single crime scene – DNA in the hearse, fingerprints on the coffin, Hair and fibres from the shack...all a match to you, Raymond."

"My client doesn't deny that he was at the shack. And he's worked with Bobby before; he could have touched the hearse and the coffin at any time."

"That's true." Grissom agreed calmly. "But when coupled with the hair and fibres found on Sara's clothing, as well as the witness testimony, do you really think a jury will believe that it's a coincidence?"

"What witnesses?" Raymond laughed; his former remorse, genuine or not, replaced by arrogance once more.

"Sara." Jim answered without missing a beat.

"Oh, the victim?" The lawyer scoffed amidst a surprised laugh, tapping the photo of Sara in the hospital with his bony finger. "The one with a tube down her throat. I'd love to hear what she has to say."

Grissom could practically feel the waves of fury foaming off the man beside him, and kicked his foot to the side as a subtle warning. It never looked good when police hit suspects in custody, but it would look even worse if he went for the defence team as well.

Brass acknowledged the entomologist's hint with a low growl.

"Your sympathy is touching." He seethed instead through gritted teeth. "So I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that Sara's awake. And as soon as she's well enough to be interviewed, we'll have everything we need to put you away for life."

"Well, that's wonderful news." The advisor stated, though his tone would suggest otherwise. "But you still don't have enough to charge my client with kidnapping _or_ attempted murder."

"We're not charging him with attempted murder." Grissom stated, barely able to keep a satisfied grin from sneaking onto his lips. "You're right; we don't have enough physical evidence to link you to the crime. Not yet – but we will."

The perplexed faces staring back at him blinked in uniform. They could both sense that it was a trap, but they couldn't figure out the punch line.

"So, we can go then?" Raymond asked when nobody spoke again, heaving his heavy frame out of the seat.

"Not quite." Brass stood up too and gestured for Officer Mitchell to handcuff the suspect. "We will get you for what you've done to Sara; but in the meantime, Raymond Acerbi, we're arresting you on suspicion of money laundering and theft."

"What?" Raymond blustered, turning to his counsellor for explanation. However, it was Gil who stepped up to the plate.

"We searched your car." He explained. "What do you think, Jim? How long will he get for having ten-thousand dollars worth of stolen 1958 Sands Casino chips on his back seat?"

"I don't know." Jim grinned, a devilishly contented grin. "But I'm sure Jakie and Frank will let you know exactly how much they're worth when you see them in Hell."

* * *

><p><strong>July 17th, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital, ICU<br>**

"Do you think he always intended to kill her?" Nick asked, rocking back in his chair and chewing idly on the end of a pen. "Or do you think he changed his mind after Bobby got arrested?"

"I don't know." Warrick sighed, his elbows folded across the railing at the foot of the bed. "I doubt he was going to let her just walk out of there."

"No, probably not." The Texan agreed. "She was really lucky – a few more minutes and we'd have been too late."

"Man, she must have been scared as hell in there." Warrick shook his head, moving to perch on the edge of the bed. "Can you even imagine waking up in a box in the ground, bleeding to death?"

"Sara's a tough cookie." Nick sat forwards and gripped her hand tightly between both his own. He had been optimistic to hear she had woken up, but since his arrival she had remained dead to the world. "She's going to come through this."

"Yeah, I know." Warrick agreed. "But try telling that to Catherine. She's going out of her head while Sara's in here."

"Yeah, I noticed." Nick scowled, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Hey, do you think it's weird how ... distressed Cath's been about all this?"

"No." The dark-skinned CSI scrunched up his nose. "Cat loves Sara, why wouldn't she be worried?"

"Worried yeah, but she's been way more than that. And it's not like they've ever been ... close, you know?"

"Come on." Warrick laughed, repositioning himself against the bedrail. "You haven't fallen for that act have you?"

"Act?" Nick pressed, confused.

"Yeah. Cath likes to pretend she's Matron Mama Morton, but the truth us she'd do anything for Sara – she adores her. That ice queen front she's got going is just to hide how much she really cares about her."

Nick opened his mouth to contest the fact, or find out where he'd been when this revelation came about; but a sound at the far end of the room stopped him.

The guys both turned, expecting to find Catherine or Jim. Instead, shuffling his feet sheepishly in the threshold was the shabby figure of Dylan Sidle.

"The nurse said it would be okay to come in." He explained uncertainly, as if he needed to justify his reason for being there.

"It's alright, boss." Nick frowned, nodding for the man to come further in. Dylan dragged his dirty sneakers across the pristine floor, his wide-eyed gaze glued to Sara's face. The breathing tube had been removed and replaced with an oxygen mask, but the garish bandage across her slender neck remained in place.

"H...how is she?"

"Alive." Warrick answered bluntly, placing a hand on his shoulder and practically shoving him towards the bed. Getting the hint, Dyl nodded and inched closer to his wounded sister.

He hadn't seen her for almost eight years; and yet here she was, bruised and broken and desperately in need of help. He couldn't help but feel partly culpable. If he hadn't been so fixated on their parents, the cops might have found her before it got this far.

He sniffled, ashamed to be caught crying in front of the CSIs.

"So," he sniffed, using his scraggly bangs to shield his eyes. "It was true? About Grampa and that dead guy?"

"Yeah, yeah it was all true." Nick agreed.

"And Laura? She had nothing to do with it?"

"No." Warrick pursed his lips. "And that money you were so afraid of releasing didn't either."

"Wow." Dylan shook his head, turning his sad blue eyes to Sara's face once again. She looked nothing like him, or Seth. If you didn't know better, you'd never believe they were siblings.  
>"I should have helped her." He admitted hoarsely. "I was just so scared of the repercussions ... I walked away from it all."<p>

"It's never too late to walk back." Warrick pointed out. At Dylan's pensive hum, the guys shared a look that could almost have been routed in sympathy. Finally, Nick took a step closer.

"Hey, you've got a chance to fix this. Your baby sister," he pointed at Sara, "has barely survived this; and she's going to need her brothers on her side – together."

Dylan looked up morosely, his tear-filled eyes searching the Texan's face.

"I'm not so sure Seth's going to want anything to do with me."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that."

All three whirled around to find Jim Brass filling the doorway, one hand firmly gripping Seth's arm. The detective turned casually to the young man – who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but in the same room as his brother right now – and cocked a questioning eyebrow.

"Isn't that right?"

* * *

><p>Once they were left alone, despite Seth's vocal protests, the two boys just stared for a moment.<p>

"Hey," Dylan said at last, breaking the awkward silence.

Seth, for his part, rolled his eyes exasperatedly and strode towards the bed.

"I came here for her, not to kiss and make up with you."

"Yeah, I know." Dylan sniffed. "But, she's going to need us both to get through this."

"Yeah, 'cause you've been such a good impact on her life so far." Seth mocked. "Oh no, wait, you haven't because you were never there for her!"

"Never there?" Dylan repeated, insulted. "Who the hell do you think protected her from dad's temper? From mom's moodswings? Who stopped dad from smashing her head against the fridge when she was a baby?"

"Who ran out on her and left her at the mercy of social services?" Seth challenged, turning away from the bed to face-off with him.

"I was a fucking kid, Seth! What did you want me to do?"

"I wanted you to be a brother! To be there for us, when we needed you most!"

"How? You were in care – what did you want me to do, bust in and break you out?"

"I wanted you to tell the truth." The younger snapped, jabbing him in the shoulder. "To tell them that it wasn't mom's fault, that dad had it coming. You were older; they would have believed you more than us!"

"You have no idea." Dylan laughed coldly, clawing his hands through his hair as he realised that Seth still didn't know the truth about Max's death. "You have no fucking idea what went on in that house."

"No idea?" Seth barked, shoving his brother with more force than even he expected. "I fucking lived it, Dyl!"

Dylan reacted instinctively to the assault, raising his arm in defence and swinging out with his left fist to land a punch on Seth's cheek.

Seth stumbled, tugging Dylan with him, and the two fell backwards towards the bed.

The sight of Sara's injured body flashing through his peripheral vision shocked Dylan into swinging both himself and Seth onto the floor to avoid landing on her and they both clattered to the hard ground with a painful thud.

"Damn." Seth snarled, clutching his bruised cheekbone. "What the hell?"

"Sorry." Dylan shrugged, picking himself up and dropping into the chair. "But you hit me first."

Seth blinked at him, surprised by the childish comment. But he didn't bite back this time.

For the first time since this hell began, he saw the look in Dylan's eyes as the oldest Sidle sibling watched over their baby sister. He may be a junkie thug, but there was obviously something akin to love burning behind those anger-filled blue orbs.

Perhaps, for once in his life, his motives were genuine.

Seth shuffled across the floor, until he was propped against the edge of the bed at Dylan's feet.

"Do you remember when we were trying to see who dared go furthest along that wall – the one that jutted out into the sea? Sara wanted to join in, but we told her she was too little."

"Yeah." Dylan choked out a laugh. "And the minute we turned back to the house the little sod was across it like a bullet – beat us both hands down."

"She always did." Seth added wistfully.

"I remember how tiny she always was." Dylan added fondly. "I could pick her up and swing her around and it was like carrying air."

"Yeah, I guess that's why she never made a sound when dad used to drop-kick her across the room." Seth spat, shaking his head bitterly. "We weren't very good big brothers back then, were we?"

"No. I guess that's why she found others instead." Dylan jerked his head in the direction of the hall, where he had no doubt that the CSIs were listening at the door.

"I guess so." Seth agreed dejectedly, scraping the toe of his boots across the scarred tiles. "They all seem to really care about her."

"Yeah." Dylan sighed, tipping his head back. "It's great, you know, that she has them. But it doesn't mean she can't have us, too."

Seth lifted his gaze, but Dylan was still staring at the ceiling. Had that been an olive branch? Or just a statement of hope.

Deciding that it didn't really make a difference at this stage, Seth sucked in a breath and nodded.

"Yeah, of course she can."


	24. July 18th 2004

**In case you've lost the thread of the plot so far, this chapter should begin to catch you up to speed :)  
><strong>

**I wanted to get this up yesterday, but I was receiving an error message whenever I tried to update. It seems this is fixed now :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 18th, 2004 - - Las Vegas CSI<strong>

"Ugh, this is hell." Nick whined, tossing his pen onto the table, where it skittered across the paperwork littering its surface and came to a stop beside Warrick's wrist.

The dark-skinned CSI raised a curious eyebrow at it, before resuming his own notes.

"What?" He asked disinterestedly.

"This!" Nick exclaimed, gesticulating towards the many pages of jumbled interview transcripts and scene notes spread before them. "It's going to take forever to write up this report."

Warrick finally put down his own pen and lifted his head.

"Do you need me to walk you through it?"

Nick acknowledged the sarcastic tone of the remark with an embittered eye-roll. But his head was pounding with the conflicting facts in this case, so he sucked up his pride and exhaled sullenly.

"Yes, please."

Warrick grinned, satisfied with scoring a point over his mate.

"Okay, let's start at the beginning - right at the beginning. In 1958, Angelo Valentino, Sam Braun and Nino Carmine met with Joseph Acerbi; where he propositioned them to take out Tony Accardo and claim his hold over the Chicago Outfit and the major Las Vegas casinos."

"Right." Nick nodded, scribbling down a few bullet points. He knew all of this already, of course. But it would be easier to write up later if he had the key phrases on paper. "And they played along initially, all the while intending to set Acerbi up for a big fall by telling Accardo about his plan. But, someone took it one step further and killed him."

"Joseph's son Raymond got sent down in 1987, which is probably where he first heard the stories about his father's death. And where he met Roberto Masserio." Warrick continued. "So, when he gets out, he hooks up with Roberto's son Bobby and they concoct this revenge plan."

Nick chewed on the end of his pen, his brow furrowed in thought. So far, everything matched the evidence they had accumulated. But there was one thing that still didn't fit with what they knew about Raymond.

Warrick noticed his contemplative expression and scowled.

"What, you got a better theory?" He demanded.

"No." Nick shook his head, straightening up. "It's just ... why kill Nino, and then blackmail Sam and Angelo? It doesn't make any sense?"

"I think his plan was to kill them all. But Angelo was in hiding and Sam was surrounded by guards."

"So, he tried to draw them out?" Nick scowled, still unconvinced. "Then, how did he get to Nino? You said _he's_ been flying under the radar for thirty years."

That stilled Warrick's idle fidgeting and he cocked his head to the side.

"I don't know." He pursed his lips, his green eyes scanning the sparse layout room as if it might offer up some explanation. The various pieces of information they had collected was still tacked up to the walls, including a photograph of Sara. However, it was the box sitting inoffensively in the farthest corner of the room that caught his attention. "But I know what might help us find out."

He slipped off the stool and snatched the box up. It was deceptively light and rattled with the few meagre pieces of evidence collected from Nino's murder scene.

Nick's curiosity peaked, he hopped off his seat and moved to get a better look, as Warrick tipped the contents onto the table and began searching through them.

"What are you looking for?" Nick asked, examining a tape-lift with limited interest.

"This." Warrick proclaimed, finding the small evidence bag and holding it up proudly.

"A casino chip?" The Texan queried, his optimism sinking at the less-than exciting find. "Great. There's a whole bag of them in Trace."

"It's not just a chip." Warrick scoffed at Nick's ignorance. "This is a 1958 chip from the Sands. It's exactly like the ones we found in Raymond's car, except I found this one in Nino's pocket along with a note that was written in Italian."

"So...?"

"So, I assumed that it was some sort of good luck charm that he kept with him. But maybe it was a message from Ray."

By now, he had torn the seal of the evidence bag and retrieved a fingerprint set from his case. He looked at the multitude of powder pots, before settling on a green one to contrast nicely with the dark image of Sammy Davis Junior and his wife.

"You think Raymond put that in Nino's pocket after he killed him?" Nick finally caught on. "Why?"

"I don't know." Rick shrugged, gently dragging the squirrel-hair bristles of the brush across the faded chip, obliterating its iconic pattern. The tiny particles of dust coated its smooth surface until the whole thing was a vibrant green. Then, sharing a hopeful look with his colleague, he shook the excess powder off and held it up to the light.

In the centre of the disc, covering the entire of Sammy's head, was the clearest fingerprint anyone could hope for.

"Oh, fingerprint off air man!" Warrick gloated, wishing that Brass could be here to marvel over his impressive skill.

Nick emitted a surprised laugh, disbelieving of the fortunate find. If this matched Raymond or Bobby, they would be one step closer to solving Nino's murder.

If course, it didn't explain how Ray had gotten hold of a bag of ancient casino chips.

As if reading his mind, Warrick held out the newly-lifted print to his colleague with an optimistic wink.

"Maybe this will lead us in the right direction."

* * *

><p><strong>July 18th, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital<strong>

The room span and Catherine felt her legs turn to jelly, forcing her back down into the seat she had just so hurriedly vacated.

As she disappeared from Sara's line of sight, the newly-awake patient shot out a desperate hand in search of her; which Cath gripped earnestly.

"Hey, it's okay!" She hushed, remaining in the chair until her vision cleared enough to move onto the edge of the bed. "It's alright sweetie, I'm still here."

Sara continued to appraise her with a puzzled look; though Catherine couldn't be sure whether it was because she was confused by her friend's presence here or because she was still trying to deduce her surroundings.

Though Sara had awoken a few times already, she always remained drowsy and it was never for more than a few brief minutes at a time. This time, however, she appeared more alert than she had done all the times before.

Perhaps she was finally beginning to come back to them.

Cath remained still for a moment, letting the girl acclimatise. When realisation finally crossed her wide eyes, she lifted a trembling hand to tug her oxygen mask off. Catherine spotted the movement and quickly stopped it.

"No, no baby. Keep it on." She instructed, lacing their fingers together and pulling Sara's hand back. Sara brushed her away, trying again. This time she succeeded; but as soon as the respiration assistance was gone, her breaths became shortened and erratic.

She could feel something tight and constricting across her throat, but her blind attempts to remove it were futile and only served to make her anxious actions even more frantic. Catherine managed to catch her arms, stopping the fretful clawing at her neck. She gripped both slender wrists in one hand, using the other to swiftly replace the oxygen mask.

"It's okay, honey." She promised, sliding further up the bed and holding Sara down as gently as she could without causing more damage to the already painful injuries. "Sar, babe, you need to calm down."

But Sara wasn't calming down. Her breathing remained laboured, her scared eyes searching Catherine's face for answers to silent questions. It took the strawberry-blonde a whole minute to realise that she was trying to speak.

"It's alright." She assured her, lightly touching the bandage across her throat. "You've got a serious injury; but you're going to get better, I promise. You just need to relax for me."

The doctors had already reassured the team that Sara was going to recover from her ordeal, physically at least. But in order for that to happen, she needed to give her vocal chords a chance to heal and that meant, initially, she would be unable to speak. In a couple of days time, once her body had adjusted to the wounds sustained, she should be able to utter a few short sentences; but it would be a while before she was ready to be interviewed formally.

Though her hazel orbs remained round and frightened, some of Catherine's gentle words began to filter through the panicked fog in her mind and Sara settled down a little. Catherine smiled, nodding encouragingly.

"Good girl." She cooed, caressing Sara's arms with light strokes. "It's all going to be okay. You're safe now."

There was something Catherine had wanted to say to Sara ever since she vanished, and the words flooded back to her now. But she held them in, refusing to let them pass her pursed lips. As much as she wanted to voice the question burning on the tip of her tongue, she wanted to hear Sara's answer more. And that meant waiting until the brunette was able to talk to her.

She had waited two weeks to have this conversation; she supposed it could wait a few more days.

While she was having this internal debate with herself, Sara's attention had wandered and come to rest on the Get Well card propped up on her bedside table. The guys had opened it for her, assuming she would feel better once she saw that people were thinking of her.

Catherine noticed her staring at it and smiled, holding it open to show the many comments inside. Most of them were in familiar handwriting – lab techs and cops – although some were from other CSIs whom Sara barely even knew.

Her disappearance had affected the whole lab; creating a void which quickly filled with a dark fear that coursed through the glass walls and settled in the stomachs of everyone it touched. Now that she was safe, there was a unanimous feeling of relief that people had an urge to voice; even if it was simply a few kind words in a card.

However, Sara blatantly ignored the offering and reached instead for the empty envelope still lying on the table.

Cath watched her with a frown, her confusion growing when the patient – having retrieved the envelope – continued to stare at her in mute helplessness.

"You want to write something?" She guessed. At Sara's pleading nod, Catherine fumbled in her handbag and retrieved a pen.

Sara struggled to grip it, but somehow managed to balance it between her shaky fingers long enough to scrawl a few letters. It took a few attempts before Cath worked out what the unsteady shapes spelt, but it still left her none-the-wiser.

"Nonno?" She questioned, looking back to her silent companion for assistance. Realising her mistake, Sara took the paper back and crossed the word out, replacing it with the equally-illegible English translation.

Cath nodded slowly, realising what she wanted to know.

"Your grandfather's at the police station." She explained gently, making a concentrated effort to keep her voice neutral so as not to give anything away. "So is Raymond."

Sara nodded, apparently comforted by this news. She tried to remove her mask again, but Catherine pressed lightly on her chest to stop the act.

"Shush, babe." She instructed firmly. "We're going to take care of it. There's nothing you need to worry about anymore."

Despite half her face being covered, Sara still managed to look sceptical of the assurance. Catherine moved her hand from Sara's chest to cup her chin, being mindful of the girl's injuries.

"I know you've been through a lot." She said softly, trying to catch and keep hold of Sara's flickering gaze. "But for once, can you please trust me?"

Sara let her eyes drift closed, before opening them and immediately latching onto Catherine's gaze again; which could have been a silent response to the question, or simply a sign of her increasing tiredness.

Cath chose to take it as the former and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you." She mumbled, leaning down to press a kiss to Sara's temple. She let her lips linger there for a moment longer, revelling in the satin smoothness of the young woman's skin.

That question bubbled back to the surface of her mind again; and this time, she couldn't swallow it down any longer.


	25. May 28th 2004

**May 28th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room**

Sara didn't stir when Catherine entered the room. Neither did she react when the blonde brushed her dark hair aside and pressed the back of a hand lightly against her cheek. Whatever she had been working on remained pinned beneath her folded arms, which she had draped herself across in an exhausted heap.

It was not the first time in recent weeks that someone had found her like this. It was becoming so frequent, in fact, that even Grissom had gotten wind of the workaholic's narcoleptic habits.

"Sara, honey?" Cath called softly, moving her fingertips instinctively to the younger woman's throat; where a rhythmic beat drummed against her skin in a slow, calm pace. She sighed with relief, pulling her hand away.

To her surprise, Sara frowned at the sudden loss of contact and murmured something unintelligible, burying her face into the crook of her elbow.

Cath slid into the seat next to her and laid a tentative hand on her friend's shoulder.

"It's okay." She cooed, studying Sara's features. Even in sleep, she managed to look tortured; as if whatever demons plagued her throughout the day continued to stalk her into even the deepest of slumbers.

Catherine shook her head sadly.

"What aren't you telling us, girl?"

She didn't actually expect Sara to answer. She certainly didn't expect the answer that she received.

She could almost have convinced herself that she had imagined the words, mumbled softly from Sara's pouting lips; if not for the equally-surprised hazel eyes staring back at her.

* * *

><p><strong>July 18th, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital<strong>

The question, whispered against Sara's cheek, remained trapped between them like a secret.

Of course, that was in part due to Sara's inability to answer.

After an agonizingly long wait, Catherine finally straightened up and offered a bashful smile, hoping that Sara would understand her need to bring the subject up, even if they couldn't discuss it properly yet.

But Sara's attention appeared to be fading anyway, her eyes drifting closed despite her futile attempts to stay awake.

Cath stroked her hair in a repetitive, soothing motion until Sara's stubbornness eventually gave in and she fell back into a relaxed sleep. Like this, she was hardly riveting company, but Catherine was happy to let her doze; content with simply caressing her hand and making idle small talk with herself.

She found that it was easier than she'd expected to deal with Sara's silence. In retrospect, she should have asked the brunette about her unexpected admission when it first happened, instead of procrastinating and avoiding the embarrassed girl for several days. When Sara went missing, she had started to worry that she had missed her chance. It was just a relief to know that they _would_ talk about it, soon.

Not that it stopped her from wondering about the confession. Sara had said she loved her; and judging by her reaction, it had not merely been the slip of a tongue.

Of course, it could have been nothing more than a dream which pursued her into consciousness. But if that wasn't the case, and Sara really meant it, where did that leave them?

Her idle speculation was cut short by the urgent trilling of a cell phone. The noise disrupted Sara, too, who scowled at the rude awakening.

"Willows." Catherine greeted, squeezing Sara's hand apologetically. "Hey Gil."

Sara tried to focus on the conversation, but her head still felt as though it were full of cotton wool and she was only able to snatch a few fleeting words.

Hospital ... awake ... as soon as I can.

Cath hung up and her shoulders visibly sagged.

"That's Grissom, he needs us all at the lab. I have to go." The reluctance in her voice spoke volumes and although Sara tried to hide her disappointment, the effort didn't quite reach her eyes.

Truth be told, the older woman felt touched that Sara was going to miss her. She chose to believe that the sadness emanating from those dark orbs was due to her leaving, and not just misery at the prospect of being left alone in this sterile closet.

However, and this would puzzle her for the entire drive back to the lab, she didn't know exactly why she was pleased that Sara would miss her presence.

She was almost ready to leave, when she felt something tug her sleeve. Sara was reaching for the pen again, a hopeful look hiding beneath her oxygen mask. Catherine gripped her wrist tightly, allowing her to write a final parting message.

Perhaps she was going to get an answer to her question, after all?

However, when she looked at the note, all trace of eager apprehension vanished and a surprised laugh bubbled out of her.

"Your squirrel's fine. Greg's been taking good care of him." She chuckled, unable to keep the grin off her face at Sara's satisfied nod.

Beneath her last comment, the brunette quickly scrawled the name Frankie.

"Duly noted;" Cath smiled warmly. "But you should know he also answers to Sid now."

Judging from the disgruntled frown she received, Sara did not approve of the renaming of her pet. Still, the look was just too adorable and Catherine couldn't resist leaning down to press another kiss to her forehead.

"Get some rest." She instructed, letting her lips linger on the girl's bruised skin for a moment longer than appropriate. "I'll be back real soon."

* * *

><p><strong>July 18th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room<strong>

"Raymond and Bobby have both been remanded in custody."

"What about Angelo?" Warrick asked, drawing a sigh from their weary boss.

They were all gathered around the layout room table, the place of much discussion of late. Even though Sara was safe and well, her picture remained tacked to the board alongside a warehouse full of paperwork and unfounded Mafia intelligence.

It was as if no-one could quite believe that the ordeal was over yet. As if taking the photo down would mean they could actually relax, for the first time in a fortnight.

"Well, at the moment we don't have anything to hold him on." Grissom shrugged. "But, the Sheriff has spoken to the Modesto Police Department and they've agreed to let us re-open Max's murder case."

"So, we're going with Dylan's story?" Nick asked. He was still sceptical of the older brother's explanation, even if his motives did appear to be pure.

"We're going to explore all avenues." Gil corrected tactfully.

"Great. I'll call the California lab and get them to send the evidence over." Warrick nodded, already moving towards the door.

"No, actually. We have got a serious backlog to work through – I need you and Nick to get started on that. Cath and I will continue to work on Sara's case."

"Okay." Nick scowled. "So, who's going to work the California case?"

Grissom shot Catherine a look and she nodded imperceptibly in agreement. They had debated it at great length, but it just seemed like the right decision.

"Greg."

The young man's head shot up.

"Me?" He echoed. "But I'm not qualified."

"You'll still have to complete your proficiencies before you can work in the field, but I think you've proven yourself." Gil explained calmly. "If you still want to work in the field, that is?"

"Yeah!" Greg almost left the floor in his earnest response, his gravity-defying hair springing with each excitable twitch. "Yeah, absolutely!"

"Okay." Grissom nodded, waiting for him to make a move. When the lab rat remained in place, he tipped his head pointedly towards the door. "Well, don't you have a phone call to make?"

"Yeah, right!" Greg practically fell over his own feet as he stumbled inelegantly from the room, to an animated chuckle from the supervisors.

And it did not escape either of their notice that, in his haste to leave, he completely forgot to ask for the number of Modesto Police Station.

* * *

><p><strong>July 19th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room<strong>

"So, I hear you've been usurped by Sanders?"

Nick and Warrick paused halfway through their working lunch, sharing an irritated look at the third in a evening of increasingly tiresome comments.

"What do you want, Hodges?" Nick asked, too busy to indulge the labrat's sinister pleasure.

Hodges sighed, dismayed by the lack of a reaction to his teasing. But, never one to be discouraged easily, he whipped out a folder and sashayed towards the table.

"Actually, it's what _you_ want." He produced a sheet of paper and held it just out of their reach. "Trace off your casino chips was, wait for it ... sand."

"Sand?" Warrick repeated, massively underwhelmed by the revelation.

"We did find his car in the desert." Nick pointed out with a frown. "That's all you got for us?"

"Sorry." Hodges shrugged unapologetically, helping himself to a fry from Nick's plate and sniffing it sceptically before tossing it back down and wiping his fingertips on the Texan's shoulder.

Nick watched his actions, scowling at the greasy stain left on his shirt.

"Yeah, thanks." He snapped. "But you need to take it to Catherine or Grissom – we're off that case now."

"Seriously?" Hodges almost smirked but managed to restrain it behind his look of surprise. "Wow, talk about drawing the short straw."

"You know, there might be another explanation." Warrick mused, ignoring the tech as he stirred his soup lazily. "When I checked the bag they were in, I found splinters. Like it had been in a wooden box or a chest, or..."

"Under the floorboards?" Nick suggested, raising his eyebrows.

The two men shared a devious look, casting their eyes over the stack of case files waiting urgently for their attention.

"Let's go back to the desert." Warrick suggested, abandoning his food and gathering his jacket from the back of the couch.

"But I thought you were off the case?" David pointed out, side-stepping them in their rush to leave before being spotted by Grissom.

En route to the door, Nick snatched a couple of fries for the road and pushed the half-empty packet into Hodges' hands.

"Here you go, boss." He grinned, patting him on the shoulder and leaving a deliberate greasy smear across the sleeve of his pristine lab coat. "Enjoy!"

* * *

><p><strong>July 19th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Gil Grissom's Office<strong>

"So, she was okay?" Grissom pressed for the fifth time. And for the fifth time, Catherine sighed.

"She was fine, Gil. She was half asleep."

"I wish we could talk to her." He tapped his pen against his pursed lips. "Just for a few minutes, to find out her story."

"Hmm." Catherine agreed, opting to keep quiet. She, more than anyone, wanted to talk to Sara. But her reason had nothing to do with the case at hand.

Sensing Grissom's gaze on her from across the cluttered desk, she realised that he was studying her again. She knew that her reaction to Sara's disappearance had surprised the team, but so far everyone had been so preoccupied with finding her that they hadn't had time to ask why that was.

Clearing her throat, she elected for a diversionary tactic.

"Where are her brothers staying?"

"The Sheriff has agreed to put them up in a hotel until Sara's able to talk to them properly." He answered, still peering warily at her over the top of his glasses.

"I hope they can sort things out." She mused, leaning back in her seat. "Do you know the last time they were all together in one place was at their mother's appeal hearing?"

"Yeah." He agreed sadly, his deep scrutiny of her finally ceasing as he took his spectacles off and rubbed his eyes. "Ten years is a long time. They're going to have a lot of lost ground to make up."

"Well, Sara's going to be out of action for a while; so it's not like they don't have the time." Cath pointed out. "I just hope it's not too late for them. If this ever makes it to court, Sara's going to need all the family support she can get."

Grissom resumed his intense staring, his blue eyes flicking from one corner of her face to the other as if it held the answer to all his burning questions. Finally, he slipped his glasses back on and picked up his pen to continue working.

"She's already got a family." He stated blithely, signalling an abrupt end to the conversation as his attention quickly sank back to his notes.

Catherine sensed that she may have touched a nerve with the boss, though she was stumped if she knew what it was. Either way, since he wasn't trying to read her mind through her skull anymore, she elected not to push the issue.

"Yeah." She agreed with a coy smile. "She does."


	26. July 19th 2004

**July 19th, 2004 - - Nevada Desert**

The yellow crime scene tape fluttered to their feet as the rickety piece of wood collapsed open, sending a cloud of dust spiralling towards the guys and forcing them backwards onto the unstable steps.

"Whew!" Warrick whistled, waving a black-gloved hand in front of his face until it cleared.

The desert shack looked exactly like it had when they were last here, with its lone desk tucked away in the far corner and the dingy corridor stretching to their left, past the bathroom-cum-closet and into the little room where Sara had been kept chained and captive.

The boys stood side-by-side, silently mapping the place as though looking at it for the first time. It was still hard for them to believe that all the time they had been trying to find Sara – envisioning her in the trunk of a car or locked in a rundown apartment somewhere - she'd been holed up in this barren dump.

She must have been terrified. Even if she had managed to escape the crappy building, out here in the middle of nowhere, she was still their prisoner.

"Okay." Nick exhaled, placing his hands on his hips. "So, what are we looking for?"

"Anywhere they might have been hiding the chips." Warrick had begun to pace slowly around the sparse room, scouring it for any hiding place or secret vaults they might have missed last time.

"I don't know, man." Nick dragged a hand over his hair, disrupting the thin layer of dust that had settled in his short locks. "I checked every inch of this place, there's nowhere you could store something as big as..."

"Shush." Warrick held up a hand to silence his mate. Holding Nick's gaze, he took a very deliberate step forward. The ancient floorboard shifted beneath his foot and in the silence hanging between them, the creak was like a siren.

Nick's lips spread into an understanding grin and the two men crouched down to get a better look.

"Man, this place is rotten." Warrick bemoaned, trying to get his fingernails beneath the sagging wood and feeling it crumble in his hands. Years of damp, runoff from the overshadowing mountain range, had embedded itself in the floor and left the foundations to fester.

"Here, hold up." Nick placed a hand on Warrick's shoulder and gently nudged him aside. Snatching a discarded piece of metal from the desk, he wedged it down the side of the board.

Realising what he was going to do, Warrick moved to the opposite side and between them they managed to prise the floorboard away with a loud snap.

A miniature sandstorm rose up from beneath the ground, dragging the irrefutable smell of decay up through the cracks. It was a scent that was familiar to them both, the putrid stench of decomposition. Rats, probably, they both thought.

Warrick coughed, covering his mouth to save inhaling the rancid dust.

"Hey," Nick wheezed, pointing through the fog. "Check it out, there's something under there."

They could only see the top corner of it, but there was definitely a sack of some kind stashed beneath the floor. Stepping to the side, they removed the next board; and the one after it, until finally the item was revealed.

"Whoa!" The Texan exhaled, wiping a line of sweat from his brow and leaving a trail of grime in its place. "Jackpot!"

Warrick delved into the sack and came back up with a handful of dusty, brittle chips. Their once vibrant turquoise trim was now a faded grey, but the face grinning out from the centre was undeniable.

"Woohoo." He laughed, letting them slide through his hands like the sand in which they had been buried.

"Damn. Raymond must have panicked and just grabbed whatever he could." Nick theorised.

"You know," Warrick placed his hands on his knees, catching his breath back from the excitement of the find. "I bet Joey was keeping these out here for security and Ray found out about it. I bet that's why he picked this place to keep Sara."

"What was he going to do with them?" Nick asked, picking up one of the old chips and examining it. "It's not like you could just walk into a casino on the strip and cash these."

"They're iconic. Collectors would pay a lot for just one of these."

Nick crouched down as far as he could, attempting to see beyond the sack.

"Do you think there are any more under here?"

Even through the murky atmosphere their antics had created, Warrick's smirk practically glinted.

"There's one way to find out."

* * *

><p><strong>July 20th, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital<strong>

Sara had never liked hospitals. In fact, as a child, she used to have panic attacks whenever she was brought into one; to the point where she was mistakenly diagnosed as asthmatic until the age of fourteen.

They were like sterile torture chambers – just an endless routine of slicing and injecting and scanning. A doctor once gaily informed her, upon glancing through her impressive medical file, that she had had so many x-rays in her life it was a miracle she wasn't radioactive.

And there were some injuries she hadn't even gone to the hospital for. It was impossible to know how many of her young bones had been snapped like winter twigs and allowed to set by themselves. She used to imagine herself as a broken doll, with joints that didn't quite line up properly and ligaments stretched and twisted like the damaged chains of DNA that made up each one of those fractured body parts.

She had grown up hating her body for it; for all the gnarly scars littering her ivory skin and the misaligned skeleton that lay hidden beneath.

But her mother always said it was the broken parts of a person that made them who they were. That all those splintered pieces, when fitted back together, made a whole – even if it wasn't perfect. Like a vase once shattered and glued back together; the lines creating a roadmap of life and love and a story that was uniquely yours.

Sara supposed that was why she stayed loyal to Max despite the way he treated her. To most people he was a violent drunk, a drug addict. But when looked at through her rose-tinted vision, he was just another broken vase.

Laura used to say that if Sara was a tree, she'd be a willow; because no matter how many times she was bent, she never completely broke. She would always get back up again. So many times in her life, Sara had held onto that analogy, trying to picture herself flexing and twisting in the breezes and the storms.

But there are only so many times that you can bend something, even the lithe branches of a weeping willow tree, with it beautiful green tresses trailing like a waterfall; before they were damaged beyond repair.

Granted, they may not break.

But they would never be the same again.

* * *

><p>When Sara finally dragged herself out of the heavy abyss of sleep, she was surprised to find Catherine still sitting by her bed, as if she had never even left.<p>

Even more puzzling was the look of alarm on her friend's face.

It was only when the strawberry-blonde reached out to drag her thumb delicately beneath Sara's eye and catch a solitary tear that she realised what had put the panic in her features.

"You're okay?" Catherine said, her satin voice dripping with concern.

Sara couldn't be sure whether it was meant as a question or a statement, but she nodded anyway and hurriedly wiped away the crystalline tracks staining her bruised cheeks.

It had been so long since she woke up crying, she had almost forgotten what it felt like.

That was the one thing she had not let herself do whilst in Raymond's clutches – he could make her beg and he could make her pray to a God she didn't believe in, but he would not make her cry.

Catherine was clearly bemused by the phenomenon and Sara couldn't help but wonder how long she had been sat there, watching tortured expressions cross her sleeping face and debating what to do about it.

She felt like she should offer an explanation, or at least a vocal assurance that she was okay. Forgetting for a moment about her injury, she tugged off the oxygen mask and sucked in proper air for the first time in days.

"I'm sorry." She managed to say, startling them both.

Her voice was severely weakened, from the wound and from lack of use, but the words were surprisingly clear and Catherine stopped mid-way towards silencing her.

"It's okay." She frowned, moving her poised hand to stroke Sara's hair instead. She didn't know what the girl was apologising for, but she was just so happy to hear that familiar tone again that she decided it didn't really matter. "You're going to be okay now."

Sara shifted, twisting her head. She could feel something constricting her throat and reached up to touch it, but visibly flinched when her fingers grazed the bandage.

"Hey, be careful." Catherine warned, dragging the pad of her thumb across Sara's hairline. "You'll hurt yourself even more."

Realising that she was going to have to put up with the discomfort, Sara let her hands fall back to her side and threw her head into the pillows with a petulant pout.

She had never revelled in feeling helpless; and even with Catherine's caressing touches, she couldn't relax knowing that she was powerless to remedy her own situation.

Catherine didn't appear to have even noticed the brunette's sulk. Her gaze had meandered across the room, her thoughts hidden so deeply behind a mask of worry that Sara couldn't even begin to decipher them.

She was so lost in her own musings, in fact, that she almost missed it when that pitiably soft voice spoke up again.

"Sorry?" She blinked, snapping back to the room.

Sara shuffled further upright, raising a hand to her throat but stopping short of touching it this time.

"What I said ... before. I did mean it."

The confession was timid, her blush suavely disguised beneath the multicoloured contusions.

The moment of silence that followed felt like an age as Catherine let this revelation sink in. Finally, she pulled Sara's hand closer and locked their fingers together, pressing a feather-light kiss to her knuckles.

"I didn't mean to say it out loud." Sara added quietly around a shuddering breath, glancing away from her companion.

Cath bit back a laugh, tightening her grip on their conjoined digits. The reaction at least got Sara to face her again and the young woman's lips twitched into a bashful smile.

It was true, she hadn't ever intended Catherine to find out about her feelings. That would have been akin to painting a rainbow-coloured target on her back and hanging a billboard off the roof of PD. There were some things you just don't need your colleagues knowing about you; and that was most certainly one of them.

Clearly the blatancy of her predicament was missed on the blonde, as Cath cocked her head to the side in innocent question.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Despite the pain it caused her damaged facial muscles, Sara sent her the most derisive look she could muster.

"I blurted it out by accident and you avoided me for a week." She pointed out, insult creeping into her features regardless of her best efforts to hide it.

Whether it was the raw emotion in her voice taking its toll or simply the continued strain of trying to talk, her words were becoming more difficult to get out and Catherine quickly replaced the oxygen mask over her mouth and nose.

Sara frowned, seeing it as a flagrant attempt to silence her, until Cath continued speaking.

"I wasn't avoiding you," she corrected gently, trailing her fingertips down the smooth line of Sara's jawbone. "I was just shocked. I didn't quite know how to take it."

Sara reached up to remove the medical gag, but Cath was quicker and gripped her arm just above the chain-induced sores adorning her slim wrist.

"No, leave it on." She instructed firmly. "Sar ... I guess I just didn't know what to do about it. I still don't."

Sara tugged her hand free and removed the mask again despite the chastising look she received.

"I know nothing can happen." She said hoarsely, a frankly honest sadness emanating from her hazel eyes. "That's why I didn't want you to know."

Catherine took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, pursing her lips. Sara had looked away again and was threading the edge of her blanket through her slender fingers. She looked almost more fragile now than she had when they'd lifted her out of that casket.

"You're alright." Cath sighed at last, replacing the breathing mask for a final time. "That's all that matters right now."

* * *

><p><strong>July 20th, 2004 - - Nevada Desert<strong>

"Jesus Christ." Nick breathed, sitting back on his haunches to examine their work. Sweat had soaked through his thin t-shirt; while Warrick had removed his all together, his coffee-coloured skin gleaming in the harsh afternoon sun streaming through the dirty windows.

How on earth Sara had coped sitting in this heat with limited water was anybody's guess.

"What do you reckon?" Warrick asked, taking short sips of his drink between sentences. He had propped himself up against the doorframe, on the only part of the floor that was still intact. "Twenty years per body?"

"Yeah, okay." Nick panted. "I'd say we're looking at one-hundred and eighty years, not counting the kidnapping and attempted murder charges."

The bodies were haphazard, buried at right-angles and stuffed into corners. Most of them had decomposed long ago, leaving nothing more than powdery bones. In the coppery sand, they looked like stones peeping out of the earth.

Some of them had mummified in the dry heat; what remained of their dried skin clinging to the skeletons, while the faces remained fixed and contorted into pained death-masks.

"If Raymond thought he was in trouble before..." Warrick whistled, shaking his head.

"Yeah." Nick turned to the bag of chips, lying discarded and almost forgotten in the corner of the room. "And even they aren't going to be enough to buy his sorry ass out of jail."


	27. July 20th 2004

**Thought I'd leave you on a happier note, for once :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 20<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Jim Brass' Office**

"You released him?" Nick's jaw fell open, his eyes bugging out in bewilderment. "How the hell could you do _that_?"

"His lawyer pleaded his case to the judge." Grissom explained, leaning back against Brass' desk and folding his arms. His sagging shoulders and sulking pout implied that he was no happier about this development than anyone else in the department, but he had at least accepted that it wasn't decision to make. "He's an old man with a recent gunshot wound. Apparently, it's unfair to leave him in a cell while we find enough evidence for a conviction."

"Unfair." Warrick scoffed bitterly. "What he did to Sara is unfair. He deserves everything he gets."

"He has to report to the police station every day from now until the pre-trial and I've got units monitoring his every move." Jim interjected from his seat behind the large desk. "He's not going anywhere."

The boys sighed, realising that their protestations had come far too late. Clearly, Brass had done his utmost to restrict the criminal's movements as much as possible; but if this feeble result proved anything, it was that Raymond's lawyer was a shrewd piece of work.

As long as he knew how to twist the law in Ray's favour, they were going to have a fight on their hands.

By now, Grissom had turned his attention to the state of his two guys. They were wearing the same clothes they'd had on earlier, but they were filthy. Dirt clung to every inch of denim encasing their legs and their hands were chapped and splintered; tiny pieces of the rotten floorboards tearing into their skin like miniature daggers.

"I thought I said that Catherine and I were going to work this case from now on." He pointed out carefully, quirking an eyebrow.

Nick was predictably the first to turn sheepish, with Warrick barely flinching at the reserved accusation.

"Yeah, I know." Nicky held up hands. "But we had a hunch about those casino chips, so we thought we'd go back to the desert and ..."

Grissom's expression hadn't changed since he started babbling, a sure sign that you were digging yourself into a hole. So, instead of continuing talking 'til he reached China, the Texan decided instead to show their boss the evidence they had – literally – unearthed.

He produced a memory card and offered it out to the older man with a look of hope. Gil stared expressionlessly at it, awaiting elaboration.

"Warrick and I went back to the desert and pulled up the floor. On there are the photos of what we found."

As annoyed as he was at the guys' disobedient fishing expedition, Grissom still trusted their judgement; so he handed the card to Brass and waited for the detective's exasperatingly slow computer to load the images.

The first one to finally grace the screen was of the bag of casino chips. Brass and Gil both nodded appreciatively at the find, understanding why the boys had been so excited when they arrived back.

However, it was the next photo that caused an almost inaudible gasp to slip past Grissom's lips.

"We counted nine." Warrick answered his silent question. "Inside."

"Property's sealed up, we've got a couple of uniforms guarding the place." Nick added. "There could be ten miles of dead bodies out there."

"We'll get an excavation team to start searching." Grissom chewed on the inside of his cheek, a fleeting thought crossing his mind at the exact same time Warrick voiced it out loud.

"Do you have any idea how many skeletons are in that desert? There's no way you'll identify them all."

"No." He emitted a resigned sigh. "But we can try."

"I'll call Raymond's lawyer and have him brought back in." Jim said, almost gleeful with the new discovery. "I can't wait to hear how he explains this one away."

* * *

><p><strong>July 21st, 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House<strong>

When Lily told Catherine that she was pregnant, Cath had politely requested that she make sure it was another girl; as she had no particular desire for a baby brother.

It was at times like these that she regretted voicing that innocent wish, as if by saying it aloud had somehow sealed the occasion in fate.

"Nancy." She groaned, throwing her head back against the couch cushions. "Please, for the love of God, stop."

Nancy trailed off mid-sentence, blinking in surprise at the rude interruption to her anecdote.

"Well, excuse me for making conversation." She huffed, snatching up her untouched coffee mug and nursing it sullenly between her hands. "But you haven't said anything in nearly an hour."

Catherine caught her eye and nodded imperceptibly in acknowledgement of the statement.

"I'm sorry." She breathed. "I'm just ... I don't know what I am right now."

Nancy put her mug down again and placed a caring hand on her sister's arm.

"Hey, Sara's going to be okay you know." She pointed out sympathetically. "She's going to recover."

"Yeah, I know." Cath scraped a hand through her hair and sank further into the cushions before opening her mouth again. "She said she loves me."

"So?" Nancy queried, unperturbed.

"_Loves_ me." Catherine repeated. "Romantically."

"Ah." The nurse cottoned on to her sibling's odd mood, an impish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "And this is a problem, because..."

"No, it's not a problem." Catherine frowned. "It's just that I don't know what to do about it. I mean, she did say that she knows nothing can ever happen between us. She knows I'm straight..."

"But you're not."

There was a long pause while Cath studied the younger sister's face, before a sad realisation settled across her own features.

"Oh, I forgot you knew about that."

Nancy grinned.

"Of course. I know everything about you." She shrugged flippantly. "So, I ask again, what's the problem?"

It was not strictly true that she knew _everything_, but Cath opted to keep that nugget of information to herself.

"It was a long time ago, Nance." She shifted uncomfortably, dragging a fingertip around the rim of her mug. "I'm not that person anymore. And besides..."

"Oh please!" Nancy cut her off dismissively. "You have not talked about anything but Sara for the last two weeks."

"Yeah, because I was worried about her." Cath scowled. "She _was_ missing, might I remind you."

"Yes, and I know your team is very important to you and you're a family."

The trivializing tone with which she made the remark rose Catherine's heckles and she instantly snapped her gaze up from the murky depths of her luke-warm coffee.

"Yes, we are." She barked tersely. "What's your point?"

"My point is, you've told me every last detail about Nick and Warrick and Grissom and Jim ... you've barely even mentioned Sara's name before. And yet, as soon as she goes missing, you fall off the edge of reason altogether. And now you're sat here practically daydreaming about her."

"I am not daydreaming." Cath scoffed indignantly, trying to hide the flush creeping up her neck. "And Sara and I ... we just never spent that much time together outside work. It doesn't mean I don't care about her in the same way I do the boys."

"Right." Nancy rolled her eyes. "Like you 'cared' about Jessica – which is why I only found out her name after you'd already broken up."

"That was different." Catherine bristled. "You were never supposed to find out about her at all."

"Like I was never supposed to find out about Sara?"

"No, I ..." she stopped short of finishing the sentence, pursing her lips shut. "You know what, this is not helping me."

"It wasn't supposed to." Nancy flashed her a mischievous smile. "You don't need help, you just want someone to tell you what you already know."

"You're insane." Cath brandished a finger at her, before collecting their mugs and sashaying into the kitchen under the guise of washing up. She could feel Nancy's knowing smirk watching her walk away, but she refused to dignify it with a reaction.

How on earth could she? It was absurd. She didn't love Sara.

Well, of course she _loved_ her; but not in that way.

She hadn't loved anybody in that way in a long time.

* * *

><p><strong>July 21<strong>**st****, 2004 - - Desert Palms Hospital, Private Ward**

The words were murmured and distant, as if caught on an intangible breeze. She couldn't make them out, but the voices were familiar. And that accent...

With the light shining above her, everything was shrouded in a yellow haze; as if she was seeing things through the cloak of her own aura. A shadow stepped into view, large and threatening above her fragile frame. She tried to lash out; but her fingers seemed almost to sweep through it, as if it were made of nothing more substantial than the fog that used to creep through the streets of San Francisco on humid summer nights.

Then there was a hand on her arm, strong and firm, pinning it to her side.

She tried to pull away, but it felt like she'd had cement injected into her veins. Every muscle was impossibly heavy, weighted to the soft lining beneath her.

She turned her head away violently and heard something rip. Her throat.

Blood, hot and damp, was pouring down her chest. She felt cold, frightened. She felt herself fading, every last breath evaporating out of her into the darkness that she had suddenly been draped in.

Then, she didn't feel anything at all.

* * *

><p>"Sara, Sara! Baby, it's me. It's Warrick."<p>

He exchanged a panicked look with Nick, who appeared equally flummoxed by the unexpected nightmare that had ensnared their fallen friend.

Sara awoke with a flustered squeak and jolted away, gasping desperately to get air into her burning lungs. Her eyes were wide and unfocused and she seemed completely oblivious to her own hand latched tightly onto Warrick's wrist.

"It's alright baby, it's just us." He soothed, waiting patiently until the glazed look faded enough for his features to register in her mind. She raised a shaky hand to her throat, feeling the bandage still in place. Sweat, not blood, had soaked her hot skin.

The terror-induced haze began to fade and Warrick's words slowly filtered through until her body started to relax again.

"It's okay, we've got you." He repeated, leaning in tentatively to press a kiss into her hair.

Sara slumped back against the pillow, releasing his arm and clawing both hands through her hair before she yanked her breathing mask away.

"I'm sorry." She managed to say through laboured breaths.

"Hey, it's alright." Nick moved around the bed and perched on the opposite side to Warrick, so she was effectively pinned between them. "It's okay, we understand."

They didn't, of course. How could anyone understand how it felt to wake up in a coffin drenched in blood? Anyone who would understand probably wasn't around anymore to tell their tale.

Most people who were buried alive weren't rescued in time.

Sara seemed to have calmed down a little, enough to straighten up against the headboard and realise two things. First, her guests had brought a present with them, which was currently sat at the foot of her bed.

And second, this was not the same room she had been in last time she awoke.

"I've moved." She mumbled, casting a curious glance around her new surroundings. The boys shared a look, but it was Warrick who took the bait.

"Yeah, you were taken out of the ICU last night and ... upgraded."

Even in her semi-disoriented state, she did not miss the pause and cocked a suspicious eyebrow at him.

"Your grandfather wanted you moving." Nick explained awkwardly at last.

"My grandfather was here?" She asked, nearly choking on the words.

"Briefly." Nick agreed, gripping her hand between both of his. "He wasn't allowed to see you – he just spoke to the staff."

The thought of this man – the same man who had so frightened her as a child; and who had ultimately been the cause of her terrifying ordeal – throwing his money around to improve her care, did not sit well with the brunette.

"I don't want to see him." She stated before they could even ask.

"Alright." Nick agreed, catching sight of Warrick's concerned scowl and mirroring it. "Alright sweetie, you don't have to."

Opting to change the subject, Warrick snatched up the item she had already spotted and held it out to her.

"Greg left this for you earlier." He explained, relaxing when she smiled at the mention of the lab rat's name.

"Greg was here." She enquired, evidently much more comforted by that than the news of her previous visitor.

"Are you kidding, we practically had to use a wench to get him out." Nick joked, eliciting a soft laugh from Sara as she cupped the soft toy protectively in her hands. A squirrel, naturally.

It was a sound the boys were relieved to hear, weak as it was. Catherine had already warned them not to expect too much in the way of conversation just yet; but the patient's excessive sleeping seemed to be having an effect, as they could already see a small part of their friend coming back.

Even if it was only a small laugh, or a smile; it was the Sara they knew and loved and that's what mattered most.

It was a long, difficult road that lay ahead of the team. But they were taking the first faltering steps onto it.


	28. July 24th 2004

**I have had a week of 'Mandatory Training Course' hell to deal with, so my apologies for not getting this up sooner. **

* * *

><p><strong>July 24th, 2004 - - Sara Sidle's Apartment<strong>

"I'm fine." Sara forced out through gritted teeth, though the assurance didn't sound anymore more plausible now than it had done when they left the hospital.

"Sit down and stop lying." Cath ordered bluntly, dropping Sara's bag on the floor and moving swiftly into the kitchen.

It was telling just how much time she had spent in this flat recently, especially given she had not stepped foot in it in the four years prior to Sara's disappearance. She appeared effortlessly comfortable as she swept casually around the small space, tidying things here and there while she waited for the kettle to boil.

As Sara watched her through naturally suspicious eyes it became increasingly apparent that, in her absence, Catherine had subtly managed to weave herself into the fabric of her home; it was as if she had been here all along.

"You've cleaned in here." She noted, counting off in her head the things that had moved even slightly from their original place.

Growing up in foster care, personal space was limited and precious and she quickly learnt to defend it to the death. Her impressive memory skills, as well as her innate perfectionist nature, allowed her to recognise instantly when something was not where it should be.  
>And the neat-freak that she was, she did not appreciate her belongings being relocated without her permission.<p>

"Yes, I have." Cath agreed calmly, oblivious to the discomfort it was causing her young charge. She handed Sara a mug of tea and joined her on the couch with a heavy sigh.

"Why have you cleaned in here?" Sara pressed, not satisfied with the lack of explanation for this blatant intrusion into her life.

"Because you've been gone for two weeks and you allow wild animals to roam free in here."

As if summoned by her remark, Frankie's little head popped up outside the balcony doors.

Sara's face lit up and she was on her feet before Catherine could stop her. Her fingertips barely brushed the brunette's sleeve, but Sara easily spun out of her grip.

"Cat, I haven't been allowed to walk for two weeks – please, don't make me sit still any longer."

It was a pitiful plea and one Catherine couldn't refuse even if she wanted to, as Sara had already cleared the tiny apartment and was welcoming her pet inside.

"Hey buddy," she cooed, crouching down stiffly to stroke his little head. "Did you miss me?"

The excitable squeaks and the way Frankie was dancing in circles around her feet plainly suggested that he had, indeed, missed his adopted owner; even if Greg had provided sufficient temporary care.

Catherine remained on the sofa, watching with a wistful smile as the creature bounded onto the kitchen counter and waited impatiently to be fed.

The bruising on Sara's face was starting to fade into a sunrise-yellow colour and the wound on the back of her head, where she had been struck with the rifle, had healed sufficiently to be disguised by her shoulder-length waves. A pristine square of white bandage still adorned her throat; something which was clearly bugging her, though she had thus far resisted the urge to tear it off.  
>Physically, she was recovering. However, the effects of her traumatic kidnapping were still plain to see in her slow, cautious movements and her tentative speech. But most of all, it was visible in her dark eyes. Something lay hidden in those chocolate orbs, something deep and haunted that she evidently was not ready to talk about yet.<p>

Catherine couldn't help but wonder, with the new information she now held about her friend, how long those shadows had been hiding there, just beneath the surface. Had that dark look always been there? Had they just never noticed before?

For the last few days, everyone had been promising her that she would be home soon and could put it all behind her. But how exactly does one put something like that behind you?

The same way, Catherine supposed, that she put the rest of her sordid past behind her; in that, she hadn't.

And as if it wasn't hard enough for her already, she was going to be reminded of it every day when she looked in the mirror and saw the garish scars staring back at her. Catherine wanted to say something to her, something more helpful than the typical assurances. But there was nothing she could say that would take away from the pain Sara was still so obviously dealing with.

And there was a lot the girl still didn't know about. Angelo's involvement, for one.

As if Cath's internal concerns had somehow leapt into Sara's subconscious, the brunette stilled.

"Everything okay?" Catherine asked, concerned by the way her friend's face had suddenly drained of colour.

"Yeah." Sara cleared her throat hoarsely. "There's just ... something I need to do."

"Okay." Cath stood up and moved to the bench, a silent offering of her assistance. "What?"

Sara pursed her lips, shaking her head.

"No, it can wait." She decided, though it was clear from her expression that that was not true.

Catherine scrutinised her, trying to place the emotions running across her face. Finally, she reached across the bench and gripped Sara's hands to stop her nervous fidgeting with the bag of squirrel food.

"Sara, we know about your mother." She said delicately, causing the brunette's eyes to flick to hers. "We know you've been paying for her care. Is that what you're worried about?"

It was a stab in the dark, but the haunted look she received in return suggested it was not far off the mark.

"It's okay. We've spoken to the care home, they know what's happened." She continued, attempting to appease some of Sara's fears.

It seemed to have the desired effect as the patient nodded slowly, releasing a breath she hadn't even realised she was holding back.

"Does my mother know what happened?"

Catherine wasn't sure what response Sara was hoping to hear, so elected to go with the most truthful answer she could give.

"Honestly, I don't know. I don't think so."

Thankfully, this appeared to comfort the younger CSI slightly.

Catherine realised, as she watched the fear slowly start to dissipate from Sara's features, that this was the closest she had ever come to reading her emotions. Clearly, the kidnapping had had a bigger effect than anyone knew – even her normally-indecipherable mask had taken a hit.

She considered telling Sara the truth about the care-home situation; that they knew about Angelo's trust fund and the feud with her brothers. But then she looked again at Sara's tentative movements and her nervy gaze flitting around the room, and she decided against it.

She may have been allowed home, but she still wasn't healed yet; and while Catherine couldn't fix her broken body, she could protect her from the truth for just a little while longer.

* * *

><p><strong>July 24th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Corridor<strong>

"Mr Sanders?"

Greg came to a sudden stop, whirling around so fast his lab coat twirled around his legs like a dancer's skirt.

"Can I help you?" He enquired cautiously.

The man was approaching quickly with long strides and a toothy grin on his narrow face.

"Actually, I'm here to help you." He gripped Greg's hand and shook it firmly, twice. "Doug Foster, San Francisco Defence Associates."

"Doug Foster." Greg repeated, dragging the name from the jumbled pit of his memory. "You're Laura Sidle's lawyer?"

"I was." The man agreed. His words were precise and clipped, as if he didn't want to waste even a second of his precious time on unnecessarily elongated syllables. "I understand you're reopening the investigation into Max Sidle's murder?"

"Well, yeah. Sort of." Greg blustered, glancing around the suddenly-deserted corridor in the vain hope of spotting someone who could assist him with these questions. He didn't actually know if the case was being officially 'reopened', as such. He didn't even know whether he should be talking to this guy. Was he supposed to ask for ID first?

As a lowly lab tech, all this tricky legal stuff was beyond him.

Trying not to give his naivety away, he straightened up and locked his shoulders back; fixing the lawyer with a wary, scrutinising look.

"How did you know that?"

"I always keep tabs on my old cases. An officer from Modesto Police station contacted me." He checked his watch, substantiating the suggestion that he was a man of strict scheduling. Shifting the briefcase in his grip, he gestured pointedly down the winding corridor.  
>"We have a lot to discuss, shall we move this to your office?"<p>

Greg blinked, his professional façade vanishing in an instant.

"My office?"


	29. July 24th 2004 (cont)

**July 24****th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas CSI, DNA Lab **

Doug had worked in some pretty unusual places – coffee shops, basement offices, even a Buddhist temple once; when he had the fateful task of representing a priest accused of participating in an illegal protest. But this was his first time in a DNA lab.

"So," he asked, folding his arms close to his body lest any part of him should brush one of the many delicate glass test tubes adorning the cluttered bench. He felt like he was sitting inside a chandelier. "What evidence do you have?"

"We don't really have any 'evidence'." Greg corrected, rummaging through his stack of paperwork for the document he wanted. "It's more of a theory at this stage."

"Well, I'll take what I can get." The lawyer shrugged optimistically. "Let's hear it."

"Okay." Greg frowned, abandoning his search for now and taking a seat opposite Doug. The microscope sat between them, obscuring his view, and he resorted to contorting himself across the table to face the man properly. "Well, Max and Laura's eldest child – Dylan – claims to have seen two men leave the building that night. We think that they were hit men, sent by Laura's father Angelo Valentino."

"Angelo was never a suspect in the original investigation." Doug pointed out. "What motive would he have for setting up his own daughter for murder?"

"We don't think that was his intention. Angelo leant a lot of money to them a few months before Max died. We believe that Max couldn't pay him back, so Angelo had him killed."

"And Laura just happened to take the fall for it?"

Doug's scepticism was understandable – it was a difficult scenario to comprehend. After all, how could any father be callous enough to let his own child rot in a prison cell for a crime he committed?

Then again, maybe Doug hadn't spent that much time with Angelo. It did appear that Laura's mother Margot had been the most instrumental in trying to protect their child, with Angelo virtually disappearing off the planet after the trial.

"It's our guess that Laura probably witnessed the murder and it caused her to have a psychotic break. When the police arrived and saw her covered in blood, with the murder weapon, they assumed the obvious."

Doug had sat forward with intrigue, his elbows propped on the table between half-empty test-tube racks and his fingers tented against his lips in thought.

Somewhere across the room, an expensive piece of machinery beeped loudly and Greg leaped up to retrieve his samples. Doug watched him, how he danced swiftly around the poorly-designed laboratory. Clearly, his years of working in this same space had allowed him to become adept at manoeuvring around the randomly placed work surfaces.

The lawman, on the other hand, was keeping his whole body as still as possible. He was possibly the clumsiest person alive, to the extent that he had thrown out all of his drinking glasses in favour of plastic ones.

Heaven forbid he should break something in here and fatally damage a criminal case. He, more than anybody, knew of the devastating outcome that could have.

"Okay, assuming that's what happened." He said at last, waiting for Greg to sit down again. "What about these men? Did Dylan get a good look at them?"

"No, it was too dark."

"And the other children in the house? Did they see anything?"

"No, and they don't know about the investigation yet either."

This appeared to peak Doug's interest.

"Really? Why not?"

Greg squirmed on his stool, suddenly aware of how sensitive this situation was.

"Sara works here." He disclosed, leaning closer like a schoolboy sharing a sordid secret across the classroom. "She was recently the victim of a kidnapping relating to an old mob hit. That's sort of how we found out about her parents."

"Ah, I see." Doug hummed, amazed that this incident had escaped his notice until now. "I trust she survived then?"

"Oh yeah, she's going to be fine."

"Good." He nodded; genuinely grateful, even if he was still surprised by the exciting turn of events. "You know, I remember those kids. Dylan wouldn't say a word in questioning. For a while, he was actually the main suspect."

"Really?" Greg's eyebrows shot up and he put down the pen he had been idly playing with.

"Yeah, but there was never any blood found on him or his clothes. And Seth - now he put up a fight. When the police tried to take him away from the house, he kicked and screamed and fought to see his mother. He was distraught."

"What about Sara?" Greg asked quietly, not even sure that he wanted to hear this but unable to stop himself from asking.

"Sara." The lawyer repeated, pursing his lips tightly. "She didn't make a sound. Not when she was found in her bedroom, not when the officer led her from the house. Not on the car ride to the hospital. The first time she said anything was when they tried to examine her at the hospital."

"What did she say?"

Doug scowled, trying to dredge up the faded memories of that night. For years, he had heard those voices playing over and over in his head every time he closed his eyes. It was only now that he realised he couldn't actually remember when that had stopped.

When had he become so numb to the pain of those images, burned into his mind's eye, that he had been able to sleep again at night?

"'She didn't mean it'."

"What?" Greg pressed.

"No, that's what she said: 'she didn't mean it.'."

"Oh. Do you think she was talking about Laura killing Max?"

"At the time that's what we assumed." Doug shrugged. "That's what made sense."

"But it's possible she could have been talking about something else?"

"I guess so." The lawyer shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with the line of conversation. "To be honest, we never really contested the fact that Laura killed Max. Our argument was that she was justified in killing him because of the abuse she suffered, which was compounded by her existing medical condition."

"Well." Greg hummed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "Maybe we can do one better this time."

Doug glanced away, clearly uneasy with the subtle critique of his previous job. Greg hadn't said it out loud, but it was clear from the awkward silence between them that they were both thinking the same thing.

Perhaps if he'd done things better back then, Laura wouldn't have spent half her life incarcerated for a crime that it was looking more and more likely she hadn't committed.

"So, what now?" He asked, coughing softly in a vain attempt to cover the shame creeping up his face.

Greg exhaled slowly. He had been asking himself the same question for days. He had never had to run an investigation by himself before – this was new ground to him.

"Well, you said that Laura never testified in court. Maybe we should find out what she has to say about it all now?"

* * *

><p><strong>July 24<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Sara Sidle's Apartment**

"A penny for them?"

Sara blinked, shaking away her musings. Frankie had settled himself on the arm of the sofa and was clicking contentedly as the brunette absent-mindedly stroked him with her bandaged hand.

Catherine had busied herself in the little kitchenette, making them both something to eat while Sara quietly contemplated her situation. Now, she lifted her head and attempted a smile as Cath placed a tray of sandwiches on the coffee table.

"I was just thinking about my mom." She admitted, accepting a plate and immediately setting it to one side without even touching the food.

"Hmm, anything specific?"

"I'm wondering whether it would be worth moving her to a care home closer to Vegas."

"Yeah, I think that's a great idea." Cath agreed around a mouthful of food. "And while you're at it, you can get yourself a new apartment."

Sara hummed in agreement, before snapping her head round to face her companion.

"What's wrong with my apartment?"

"Well, the criminal dealings of your neighbours aside, it's like living in a matchbox." She gestured to the tiny space. From where she was sat, it was probably an equal distance to the front door, the fridge, the bed and the balcony.

"It does what I need it to." Sara pointed out indignantly.

"Exactly. If you have somewhere bigger, you might be more inclined to go home every once in a while."

Sara couldn't argue with her logic, so she dropped her gaze and pouted.

"What about Frankie?" She realised suddenly, though the argument immediately fell flat on the older woman.

"He's a squirrel Sara; I'm sure he'll survive without you."

"You don't know that."

"Okay, so write it into the sale agreement – comes with obligatory pet."

Since Sara actually seemed to be considering that as a valid alternative, Catherine laughed and nudged her gently in the ribs.

"Honey, I know you've been struggling for a long time. You don't need to anymore. You work hard; you've spent your whole life fighting for your own freedom. You should be allowed to enjoy the fruits of that."

Sara nodded slowly, though she still didn't look entirely comfortable with the idea.

"Yeah, it's just not that simple."

Catherine had already decided that she was not going to tell Sara about Angelo's money and the deal they were forging with the boys. However, her response to Sara's quiet mumble slipped out beyond her control.

"It can be."

If it was anybody else, they probably wouldn't have thought much of the simplistic statement. But it wasn't anyone else, it was Sara Sidle; and she picked up on Cath's soft assurance with instant suspicion. She turned, cocking her head to the side in question.

"You don't need to worry about it." Catherine promised, reaching out and interlocking her fingers loosely with Sara's. "There's a lot going on at the moment, but all you need to know is that things are going to be a lot easier for you from now on."

Sara turned fully to face her, her eyes narrowed.

"What's going on?" She pressed.

Catherine grinned, squeezing her hand tighter.

"Nothing you need to worry about." She reiterated.

Sara continued to stare at her, a mix of confusion and caution vying for control on her face.

"What are you..."

"Shush." Cath silenced her with a finger against her lips, which she let remain there for just a second too long. "There are a lot of things happening that you don't know about. I promise, I'll fill you in when the time's right. But you're going to be okay, we're going to make sure of it. You trust me?"

Sara nodded sceptically, still unconvinced.

Cath considered leaving it there, but there was one more thing that had been bothering her and now seemed like as good a time as any to bring it up.

"Honey, why didn't you tell us what was going on?" She asked. "If you were struggling, why didn't you come to us?"

"Why do you think?" Sara countered as if it was obvious, her lips still tingling with the ghost of Catherine's touch.

Cath knew what she was probably hinting at, but there was another reason she could think of as to why Sara wouldn't trust them with her problems.

"Sara," she tipped her head back against the cushions and sucked in a deep breath. "I know that you didn't have much of a family growing up. And I don't know what it was like when you worked in San Francisco; but here we take care of each other. You're a part of _our_ family, honey; and if we'd known you were having problems we'd have helped you to deal with them."

Sara was staring at her with an utterly unreadable expression, putting paid to Catherine's earlier assumption that the brunette's mask was somehow damaged.

"How?" She asked at last. Her colleague reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting her fingertips graze the bruise tarnishing her cheekbone.

"We'd have found a way." She promised, her words as soft as her touch. "We always do."


	30. July 25th 2004

**Very long chapter for you today, hopefully starting to tie a few loose ends up**

* * *

><p><strong>July 25th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room C<strong>

No one knew exactly how long the staring contest had been going on for, and nobody seemed intent on stopping it anytime soon; with the exception of Bobby's lawyer, who had begun shifting and twitching anxiously beside his steely client.

To his relief, and everyone else's surprise, the silence was shattered with the timely entrance of Jim Brass.

"Alright, I'm done with this game." The detective announced, already talking even before he threw the glass-panelled door open and claimed his seat at the table. "I want answers and I want them now. So you'd better start talking, kid."

Bobby had jumped at the unexpected entrance and now turned to the man by his side for translation.

"Vogliono risposte." The lawyer muttered to him, before turning to greet Detective Brass in a clipped tone. "I believe my client still has the right to silence."

"Not anymore." Jim snapped. "I want to know what he knows."

Bobby hadn't been interviewed since right after Sara was found, an endeavour which had been as fruitless as each interrogation prior to it.

But now they had gathered _almost_ enough evidence to charge Raymond with Nino's murder. They just hoped spending two weeks languishing in a cell might be enough to make loyal Bobby roll over on his boss.

And it had been surprisingly easy this time around to find a lawyer who both spoke fluent Italian and was willing to represent a mobster. You could almost believe that Mr Moazezi had done this before...

Grissom, the other man in the room who still had yet to speak, finally cleared his throat.

"We know that you were working with Raymond. We checked CCTV footage from Sam Braun's casino – you were the one who delivered the notes. And you were also the one who kidnapped Sara from her apartment."

"Yeah, you were the lackey." Brass added sardonically. "You were his assistant, doing all the legwork while he camped out in his safe little hide-e-hole in the desert. So, what did you get out of it?"

Bobby's poker face gave nothing away, but his expressive eyes appeared to show that there was still a human lurking behind that mask after all, and he was terrified.

He leant close to his lawyer and whispered something in Italian, before burying his gaze in his lap.

"My client would like immunity from any charges filed based on the information he tells you."

"No dice." Jim replied instantly. "Your client is going down for everything he's done."

Moazezi pursed his lips, flicking his piercing eyes over the young man beside him. Decked out in orange scrubs, he looked a lot more vulnerable than he had done on the night he was arrested. Gone was the empty stare, the twitching jaw muscles; replaced by a nervy young man facing a lifetime spent in a room smaller than the one he was anxiously scanning right now.

"Alright," the solicitor bargained instead. "At the very least, I want protection for Bobby."

"Protection from what?" Grissom frowned.

"From Raymond."

"Raymond's going to prison." The CSI pointed out, further confused by the request. "He won't be able to hurt your client."

"No, but his associates will." Moazezi sat back and crossed his arms. "No protection, no information."

Bobby lifted his head and it was clear, then, that the fearful look in his eyes was nothing to do with the charges laid against him. He was worried about revenge.

And why shouldn't he be? After all, when La Cosa Nostra vow vengeance, it usually ends with you staring down the business end of a .22.

"Alright." Jim agreed at last, though it visibly pained him to do so. "We'll make sure Bobby here gets sent to a prison far away from Ray, how about that?"

Omitting the sarcastic remark at the end, Moazezi confirmed the deal to Bobby, whose shoulders relaxed just a little.

"Che cosa vuoi sapere?"

Jim didn't know what that meant, but took it as an acknowledgement of their agreement.

"Raymond asked you to kidnap Sara and to deliver messages to Sam Braun." He repeated. "And like a good little lap dog, you did just that. Did he also have you kill Nino Carmine?"

Bobby looked at his lawyer, then back at Brass.

"Non mi uccidere nessuno."

"My client admits to kidnap but he is not a murderer."

"Come on, we all know how this plays out. Raymond isn't the type to get his hands dirty. Tell me what happened with Nino? Why did you kill him?"

The lawyer opened his mouth to intervene again, but a trembling hand over his own silenced him.

"It wasn't like that." Bobby began in stunted English, his lower lip quivering more with each word. "Nino ... Nino knew."

"Knew what?" Jim pushed impatiently. Beside him, Grissom sat forward as well.

"Nino knew about the chips." He guessed, drawing Bobby's dark eyes towards him. "And the bodies in the desert?"

"Nino worked with Joey." Bobby confirmed. "He knew a lot of things – things Raymond didn't want to hear about his padre ... his father."

Jim stood up and began to pace, his expression fixed in a disbelieving frown.

"Are you saying Nino killed Joey, and then tried to blackmail Raymond with information about Joseph's ... other interests?"

Bobby snapped his mouth shut, his gaze returning to the one-way mirror above Grissom's head. The scientist watched as he curled his right hand into a fist on the table. He didn't need to see it to know that in the centre of his palm was a pale, thin line. A scar, from his loyalty initiation to the Mafia.

A loyalty which he had just broken.

Moazezi nodded slowly, reading his client's silent message loud and clear.

"You've got your answers; we're done here."

Brass was leaning against the wall behind them, scepticism still dancing on his face. But Grissom's lips turned into a tight smile.

"Yes we have."

* * *

><p><strong>June 27th, 2004 - - Downtown Las Vegas<strong>

"Sono sorpreso." [I'm surprised.] A husky voice stated, emerging from the shadows. Even if Nino had felt someone watching him, he had no way to know how long Ray had been there.

Raymond stubbed his cigarette out on the edge of a trash can and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the darkness, ambling lazily towards his companion.

"Ho pensato che potresti trovare support." [I thought you'd bring back-up.]

"È necessario?" [Do I need it?] Nino asked, straightening up to his full height.

It had been forty six years since he had last seen Joseph Acerbi, but he could have sworn that he was staring at the man right now.

Of course, _he_ knew that wasn't possible.

Raymond was a hair taller than his father had been and his expression was less jovial, normally set into a permanent scowl of distrust. But now, he beamed; his teeth glowing in the ominous glare of the street light high above.

Cars continued to scream by on the strip, with horns blaring and music echoing off the high stone walls. It was a far cry from the last mob meeting Nino had had, in a smoky back-street bar with the cool jazz tones of the fifties filtering around him; but he still felt the familiar flurry of butterflies in his stomach.

"Perché siete qui?" [Why are you here?] He asked. "Che cosa volete?" [What do you want?]

Ray chuckled softly, lighting up another cigarette and taking a few pensive drags of it.

"Vorrei sapere chi ha ucciso mio padre." [I want to know who killed my father.]

Without hesitating, Nino answered.

"Ho fatto." [I did.]

Joseph had been an irrational man, an impulsive man. Though they had never actually met, Nino expected at least some of that to have rubbed off on his son.

But contrary to Nino's expectations, Ray didn't get angry. In fact, he laughed.

"Cosa ti fa pensare che non ti ucciderà proprio qui e ora?" [What makes you think I won't kill you right here and now?] He asked, delving into his inside jacket pocket. Nino watched his movements with trepidation, his breath hitching.

"Non so che." [I don't know that.] He admitted.

Ray cocked an eyebrow, extracting his hand and unfurling it for Nino to see. Tucked into his palm was a small, round chip. Even in the dimness, Nino could make out the familiar image at its centre.

"Mio padre ha dato a mia madre per la sua notte di nozze." [My father gave this to my mother on his wedding night.] He explained, flicking it up and catching it elegantly between his fingers. "Lei lo ha tenuto tutta la vita. Morì con esso sotto il cuscino." [She kept it all her life. She died with it under her pillow.]

Nino continued to stare at him expressionlessly, unmoved by the heart-wrenching story.

"Tuo padre doveva morire." [Your father had to die.] He stated calmly. "Solo in questo modo era." [It was the only way.]

Finally, a hint of anger flashed across Raymond's face and he hurled the chip at Nino's chest.

"Assassino!"

He reached for his hip, but Nino was quicker and had him backed against the trash can before he could retrieve his weapon.

"Il padre era l'assassino." [Your father was the murderer.] He snarled. "Egli ha ucciso più persone di quelle che si conoscono neanche, e se avesse avuto occasione, avrebbe ucciso molto di più." [He killed more people than you even know, and if he'd had chance he'd have killed a lot more.]

"Si trova!" [Lies!]

"I chip - chip aveva rubato - che è stato blood money." [Those chips – the chips he stole – that was blood money!]

Raymond finally regained his footing and shoved the older man away, slamming him into the wall.

"Egli era corrotto, e tutti sapevano che cosa aveva da fare; mi è stato solo l'unico che abbia il coraggio di farlo." [He was corrupt. we all knew what had to be done; I was just the only one with the guts to do it.] Nino wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing a line of blood down the sleeve of his once crystal-white shirt. "Se si sapeva che tipo di uomo che è stato, è necessario mettere un proiettile in lui." [If you knew what kind of man he was, you'd have put a bullet in him as well.]

Nino knew as soon as the words had left his lips that he had just sealed his own coffin. Raymond knew it, too.

His lips turned into a maleficent sneer and, with the natural movements of someone already hardened by the criminal underworld, he lifted his arm.

One shot rang out, clear as day, but nobody on the strip reacted.

Raymond walked slowly, until he was standing over the wounded man.

"Ogni eredità può rifiutare, ma sangue." He muttered, delving a final time into his pocket. The hammer, dull and weathered from years of over-use, somehow still glinted in the darkness as it cut through the frosty air again and again and again; until Nino's pained screams became little more than a dying echo in the noisy backdrop of the ever-sparkling Las Vegas Strip.

Proof, if it was needed, that sometimes not everything that glittered was gold.

* * *

><p><strong>July 25th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Interrogation Room B<strong>

Raymond hadn't said a word since the cop and the criminalist sat down and presented him with a signed confession from Bobby, implicating him in the murder of Nino Carmine.

Now, he turned to his lawyer and whispered something hoarsely.

His lawyer, the same thin, twitchy guy who had been by his side since his initial arrest in the desert, sat upright and cleared his throat.

"Mr Acerbi is an aging man with serious health complaints. What deals are you offering?"

Brass licked his lips slowly, almost teasingly, and answered with the coolness of someone already expecting the question.

"No deal."

* * *

><p>They waited until the group of meandering police officers had wandered out of earshot, before Jim released a heavy breath.<p>

"So, who wants to tell Sara that she doesn't have to go through a trial?"

Gil, visibly less relieved, pursed his lips tightly.

"Not necessarily. There's still the dead bodies in the desert to consider. And Max's murder case."

"Oh, yeah." Jim grunted. He was not thrilled about the idea of pursuing that case, but he had been overwhelmingly outvoted by the rest of the team.  
>It was not that he didn't feel for Laura; of course he did. But he was concerned about the effect it could have on Sara.<p>

She was still delicate and the last thing he wanted was to cause her any unnecessary distress.

Grissom scrutinised the silent man with concern, his cloudy blue eyes softening.

"Hey," he called gently. "Do you want to go for a drink?"

Jim cocked an eyebrow, a surprised laugh burbling out of him.

"You? Offering to go out?" He spluttered. "Jesus, I must look like Hell."

Gil shrugged,the faintest of smiles creeping onto his face as he tried and failed to appear aloof.

"I'm re-evaluating things." He admitted shyly.

"Well thanks for the offer," Jim chuckled softly. "But I think I'm just going to stay here for a while – I've got some re-evaluating of my own to do."

* * *

><p><strong>July 25th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Jim Brass' Office<strong>

"Hey."

"Hey," he blinked, shaking away whatever thoughts he had been so deeply lost in. "What are you doing here?"

Catherine flashed him a smile, pushing herself off the doorframe and ambling closer.

"Oh, I just thought I'd come by and see how you're doing." She shrugged nonchalantly.

The detective put down his tumbler and fixed her with a knowing look.

"You've been talking to Gil."

Catherine grinned, not denying the suggestion. She sank into the seat opposite him and nodded at the glass of scotch still clutched loosely in his fingers.

"You got any more of that?"

Wordlessly, he produced the bottle from his top drawer and poured her a glass, using the opportunity to top his own up as well. Once they were both suitably watered, he settled back in his chair, the leather creaking with each weary sigh his emitted.

"How's Sara?"

"She's okay." Cath nodded, taking a sip of the liquor and humming contentedly as a familiar burn crawled down her throat. "She was pretty tired when I left."

"Hmm." He nodded, pursing his lips. "Does she know about the enquiry into Max's death?"

"No." Cath mimicked his expression. "I did tell her about the trust fund, but I didn't want to upset her too much."

"No, I understand." Jim frowned, shaking his head. "Lord knows, she's been through enough already."

"She's tough. She'll be okay." Catherine said, though the way it was murmured into her drink suggested it was intended more to convince herself than him.

Either way, Jim didn't appear to have heard her. He was staring at a photo frame on his desk, his almost-grey eyes glazed over as some long-buried memory played out on his features.

Catherine remained quiet, letting him fall back into whatever trance she had obviously interrupted. He was right, she had been speaking to Gil and she was beginning to see now why the entomologist was concerned.

Pushing his glass aside, Jim reached over and picked up the frame. It was a photo of his daughter, taken when she was five years old; her beaming little face turned up towards the camera and her golden locks curling over her shoulders, a crayon still clutched clumsily in her hand. A brief snapshot of a childhood long since lost.

"You know, Ellie turned out the complete opposite of what I wanted for her. I tried to help her, I tried to give her the support she needed; but the more I try, the more she pushes me away."

Catherine suspected that she knew where he was going with this, but she kept quiet and let him continue at his own pace; sipping her whiskey unobtrusively.

"I loved her. But she never loved me. You know, there are a lot of things that I regret – a _lot_ of things. But that was always the biggest one. And then, Sara came along. And she kind of ... numbed it a little. I don't know why, but I wanted to protect her; I wanted to keep her safe in the way I never managed to keep Ellie safe. And I failed at that as well."

"You haven't failed." Catherine interrupted softly. "Sara is safe, now. We got her back."

"No, I'm not talking about that." He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "I'm talking about everything else – I'm talking about the money, the secrets. She kept so much from us and I missed it all – go figure."

"Sara's good at hiding things, Jim." Cath pointed out. "We all know that. The point is, we know now and we can help her. She doesn't have to struggle by herself anymore."

Jim suddenly cocked his head to the side, as if realising for the first time who he was talking to.

"How're you doing, with all this?" He asked at last. "You seem to have been struggling yourself lately."

"Oh, I'm fine." She waved a hand dismissively. "I just ... I don't know."

He continued to stare at her as she contemplated her next words carefully, chewing them over in her mouth before daring to speak them.

"I know I complain about Sam, but at least he was always on my side – even if I haven't always been grateful for that. Sara ... she never had anyone on her side, not really. It's just ... it's just very sad."

"Yeah," Jim groaned, sliding down in his chair and taking a long sip of his drink. "Tell me about it."


	31. July 27th 2004

**July 27th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Hallway**

Grissom had never noticed before how twitchy Rory Atwater became when he was nervous. Fidgeting beside the entomologist, he continued to tug anxiously on his shirt sleeves, as if worried that he was going to lose them altogether inside his pristine black suit.

"So, someone from the Gaming Commission is coming in this afternoon to take those chips." He raked his fingers through his hair, then grimaced as he felt the increasingly-wispy strands fall out of place. "Thank God; the sooner they're out of our hands, the better."

"They're not taking up that much space." Gil frowned, perplexed by the Sheriff's urgency to offload the stolen chips. Atwater shot him an unamused look.

"If the media found out about them, we'd have those jackals onto us before you can even get your fingerprint brush out." He hissed, casting a furtive glance around them, as if a reporter might be hiding somewhere in the lab, ready to jump out with a tape-recorder at any second.

"I think you've become paranoid." The CSI observed with mild amusement.

"Well, can you blame me?" Atwater demanded testily. "Long-missing gangsters coming out of the woodwork, stolen casino chips, CSI's going missing. And now, if all that weren't enough, I've got Ecklie on my back about the upcoming promotions."

"Why? Whose job is he sniffing after?" Grissom snorted. He had been vaguely aware of the departmental shake-up being proposed, but most of the details had surpassed him with everything else going on lately.

"Mine, probably." The stern man checked his watch again, though it can't have changed since the last time he looked, and straightened his suit. "When the Commission get here I want to know _immediately_. The sooner we close this damn case, the sooner things can get back to normal around here!"

As Grissom watched him disappear down the corridor, steamrolling through the crowds of people who dared to get in his way, he tried not to be too disheartened that the lab's boss had neglected to ask after Sara. After all, he had a lot on his mind right now.

Still, above the petty concerns about some ancient chips and dodgy gangsters, he couldn't help but feel that Sara's welfare should be taking top priority in everybody's mind.

She was certainly_ his_ top priority right now; and he had better things to do then stand around all day waiting for some guy in a bad suit from the Gaming Commission to come and pick up something they managed to lose forty years ago.

"David!" He shouted, drawing the trace tech out of his lair with an eagerly-raised eyebrow.

"Boss?"

"Do you want a very important job?"

* * *

><p><strong>July 27th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room<strong>

Greg tapped a pen rhythmically against his pouting lips, his gaze lost in the middle distance.

Deciding to talk to Laura had seemed like such a simple idea when he initially suggested it. But there was one vital point that had evaded him at the time.

He had forgotten to factor in how he was going to tell Sara.

She didn't even know about the investigation into Max's death – as far as she was aware, Laura had killed her father in a schizophrenic episode. And as close as they were, Greg did not want to be the one to tell her that everything she'd ever known about her childhood – however sordid – was a lie.

Laura's lawyer had been called away on a temporary emergency, giving him a few days to work his predicament out in peace. It would be fine, he told himself, as long as he didn't run into Sara in the next couple of days; otherwise he was sure to give himself away.

Of course, when was life ever that fortunate to the young lab rat?

"Greg?"

He jumped, hurriedly snapping his folder closed and causing the papers to flutter beneath his hand.

"Sara, hey!" He greeted guiltily, standing up and holding out his arms towards her. "What are you doing here?"

She accepted the hug, taking a moment to nestle against his neck before stepping away and climbing stiffly onto the stool he had just vacated - a little too close his classified files for Greg's liking.

"Catherine had some work to pick up and I was going crazy in the apartment, so I convinced her to let me tag along." She grinned, casting a warm glance around the familiar surroundings. It seemed almost surprising that everything looked the same. Of course, she had only been gone for a couple of weeks, but it felt like a lifetime to her. "So, have I missed much?"

"No." He lied, flashing a false grin. "Just, you know, the usual."

She nodded, not believing it for a minute but not caring enough to contest it.

"Have you missed me?" She asked instead, a mischievous smile dancing across her lips. He mirrored her expression, glad to see a hint of something he recognised behind her obvious scars.

"More and more every day."

She laughed; a timid, gentle little laugh. She was not quite herself yet, he realised, but she was getting there. Still, now didn't seem like the right time to start opening new wounds, when her most recent ones were still so plain to see.

Thankfully, he was given a reprieve.

"There you are." An exasperated voice interrupted the uneasy silence.

"Hey Cath." Greg greeted brightly, continuing to watch Sara out of the corner of his eye. He noticed how she visibly shifted with the blonde's sudden arrival, glancing bashfully into her lap.

"She keeping you busy?" Cat enquired obliviously, winking playfully at Sara.

"Never." He teased back, nudging the brunette carefully in the shoulder. Sara smiled, catching his arm lightly to keep herself upright. Cath stepped closer, too, and proffered a helpful hand out to her.

"You ready to go?"

"Uh huh." Sara nodded, accepting support from them both as she hopped delicately off the seat. "Thanks."

Greg couldn't help but spot how Catherine looped a protective arm around the younger woman's waist, guiding her back into the hallway.

However, they didn't get far. Catherine almost fell over when Sara came to a sudden stop in the middle of the corridor, her darks eyes growing wide and startled.

"Sara, honey..." She trailed off, following Sara's line of sight into the reception area, before her own expression morphed into one of horror as well.

"Cath?" Greg hurried anxiously towards them.

"Greg, take Sara to my office." The blonde instructed sternly, attempting to tug the girl back, but Sara's feet remained as motionless as her unwavering gaze.

And when he reached the threshold, he saw the reason why; and by now, that reason had spotted them too.

"Mi Nipote!" Angelo greeted exuberantly, approaching fast with his arms outstretched in greeting. Sara visibly recoiled, taking a step back and sliding right out of Cath's grasp.

"Mr Valentino, I need you to wait in reception." Catherine tried to sound affirmative, but her attention was still half-fixed on Sara's slowly retreating form.

"Non ancora. Not until I talk to my granddaughter."

"I don't want to see you." Sara managed to say through trembling lips.

"Sara, bella..."

"No." She whirled around so fast that it was a miracle she stayed upright, with Greg hot on her heels as she almost sprinted down the corridor.

Meanwhile, Catherine suavely stepped into the approaching man's path. He was large and imposing, and for a terrifying minute she didn't think he was going to stop.

"Mr Valentino, you need to go back to reception." She ordered sharply.

He came to a halt a matter of inches in front of her, though he was looking straight over her head. Sara had vanished around a corner by now, well out of his sight, and he dropped his shoulders in dismay.

"Non importa." He muttered sadly, pushing something into Catherine's hand. She glanced down at it, startled by the unexpected contact; and by the time she looked back up, he was already sloping towards the exit.

From the back, with his limping left leg and his stiff movements, he looked like any other old man. Weak, feeble. Gentle.

But even once he'd disappeared into the blackness encasing the building, she couldn't shake away the image of those bottomless, coal-coloured eyes boring into her skull.

"Who was that?"

She jumped at the voice in her ear, almost unsurprised to find Hodges hovering nosily over her shoulder and brazenly attempting to see the note still clutched protectively in her fist.

"Don't you have work to do?" She mumbled absently, slipping the crumpled piece of paper into her pocket.

"Oh, I am working." He assured her, straightening up to his full height. "Gil asked me to wait here for the..."

But Catherine had already gone before he could finish, speed-walking back to the safe confines of her office.

Once she reached the little room, where she could already see Greg comforting Sara through the slats in the blinds, she opened the piece of paper.

The words were in Italian, possibly to prevent such an intrusion. Still, she supposed as she slid it back into her pocket, it may answer one question which had been puzzling her. If it was only meant for Sara's eyes, then presumably she could understand the mother-tongue of her captors. That was something, at least.

Taking took a deep breath, she plastered a calm, unconcerned look on her face before stalking into her own office with her head held high.

Greg and Sara turned in unison to face her. There were tear tracks down Sara's face, serving only to highlight the faint scars littering her pale cheeks.

"Come on, honey." Catherine exhaled softly, extending a hand and waiting for Sara to thread her slender fingers into the safety of her grip. "I'll take you home."


	32. July 28th 2004

**Short and, hopefully, sweet filler chapter for you :)**

* * *

><p><strong>July 28th, 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House<strong>

She was paralysed, her legs restrained and immobile. The hands gripping her arms were coarse and unnaturally strong, pinning her to the sheets despite every fierce effort she made to fight them off.

Then without warning, they changed; the rough skin becoming soft and tender, caressing the sharp angles of her collarbone with their thumbs.

She had been unable to open her eyes, unable to see anything but the blinding darkness encasing the room. Now, she managed to open them, but still she could only see darkness. Her breathing was becoming more laboured as she began to panic, until finally the dark subsided and a soft light filtered in from somewhere to her right. The figure leaning over her was haloed by a warm hue; her long waves practically alight with the glow from the orange lamplight.

Sara could hear a faint murmur, but she could make out no words. Gradually, to her dismay, she realised that the voice was her own and the garbled sound was just the remnants of her rapidly fading dream.

"It's alright, honey." Catherine hushed, easily resisting Sara's meek attempts to sit up. "It's okay, you're okay now."

The tips of Catherine's hair were still damp from her shower and she was wrapped only in a bathrobe, but to Sara she looked like a guardian angel hovering over her.

"I'm sorry." Sara managed to hiccup. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be here."

"I want you here." Catherine countered sternly. "Now lie back down for me."

She had insisted that Sara stay with her, not in the least because of Angelo's unexpected visit to the lab. If he'd followed her to work, it would not take long for him to work out where she lived and in Sara's current mental state, they simply couldn't risk the potential fallout of that.

But there was another reason for her refusal to leave the girl alone. She wanted to be able to keep a close eye on her – to protect her from her demons – and she couldn't do that anywhere better than in her own home.

"I'm sorry, I messed everything up." Sara continued to murmur in confusion between frightened tears, her startled eyes still scanning the dim room. "I didn't mean to..."

"Shush." Cath placed a finger gently over her lips, silencing the perplexed cries.

She didn't know what Sara was apologising for – the nightmare, or the admission that they still had yet to discuss properly. Either way, she decided, it didn't really matter. There was only one thing that they both needed to hear right now.

She moved her hand to brush the brunette's sweat-dampened hair aside, letting her slender digits trail lightly down Sara's flushed cheek and trace the delicate shape of her jaw bone.

"You're not going anywhere."

* * *

><p>"I can't help it. I see it every time I close my eyes."<p>

"Nobody expects you to get over this in a hurry." Catherine pointed out, placing a steaming mug into Sara's cupped hands and taking a seat beside her at the kitchen table. The girl had been shaking so much after her night-terror, Cath had cocooned her in the warmest blanket she could find, and still her hands trembled as she clasped the drink tentatively between them.

"I know." She murmured. "But I _want_ to get over it. I've spent half my life waking up in a cold sweat; I thought I was finally past that."

It was a quiet, unassuming confession; which just went to show how far their relationship had come in the few short days since Sara's release. Prior to all this, Catherine would have had to pull teeth in order to extract such deeply personal information from the young CSI.

The blonde shifted, suddenly uncomfortable as the mood between them dipped.

"Honey, when your grandfather came to the lab earlier, he left something for you."

At Sara's expectant nod, she pushed herself out of the chair and went to retrieve the note, now neatly folded in half, from her purse.

"I'm hoping that you'll understand what it means."

Sara frowned, unfurling the piece of paper curiously. For a few seconds, she stared at the letters with a glazed expression, before they started to form themselves into words that she recognised.

"It's about my mother." She explained, sucking in a shaky breath.

"What about her?" Cath pressed, feeling bad for even asking. It felt like prying, but if Angelo was going to confess to killing his son-in-law – regardless of what language it was in – they needed to know about it.

"He says that life can be deceptive sometimes, and not to give up on her yet." Sara looked up, her features a picture of confusion. "What does he mean by that?"

Cath pursed her lips, a sure-fire sign that she was hiding something. Thankfully, Sara was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to notice the guilty look on her face.

"Sara, we know about your grandfather's trust fund. Your brothers told us about it." She explained by way of avoiding the question.

Sara knew that Dylan and Seth were in Vegas, even if she had been half-asleep and drugged to high heavens the last time she had seen them. It had been difficult to tell from her reaction whether she was pleased by their presence or not and since she hadn't requested a return visit yet, they assumed she was in no hurry for a cosy sibling catch-up.

"What did they have to say about it?" She asked, though she appeared less-than interested in discussing the matter right now. Perhaps she assumed them were still refusing to pay their fair share.

"It's quite complicated at the moment." Cath answered tactfully, squeezing her hand. "All you need to know is that we're going to sort your grandfather's money out – you don't need to worry about funding your mother's care anymore."

"What do you mean?"

"We're taking care of it." Cath promised, shooting her a tiny smile. "Just let me take care of _you_, please?"

Sara stared at their interlocked fingers on the table, debating how to answer that. She had spent so long fighting for control of her life, was she really ready to relinquish it again, even just to Catherine? She tightened her grip for a second, before releasing the older woman altogether and tugging her hands back into the protective folds of the comforter wrapped around her.

Neither had vocalised it, but something had shifted between them tonight ever-so-slightly.

"I shouldn't have said anything." She mumbled at last, casting her gaze aside to surreptitiously wipe away a stray tear. "That's exactly why I kept quiet for so long. I didn't want it to change our friendship."

To her surprise, Catherine chuckled softly, tilting her head towards the ceiling.

"Oh Sara, my girl ..." she breathed, dropping her attention back to Sara's bemused face. Despite the tense nature of the conversation, there was a relaxed quality to her expression that hadn't resided there for a long time. "I've always cared about you as more than just a friend."


	33. July 30th 2004

**July 30th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room**

It had been a surprise for the boys coming into work that night to find Catherine in Grissom's office; but it had been a downright shock to find Sara sitting in the break room drinking coffee, as if she had never been anywhere else.

The story of her ordeal was still written all over her face, in a roadmap of bruises and scrapes; the scar on her throat impossible to ignore. Yet, in this moment, she appeared the epitome of peace.

"Hey girl!" Warrick greeted cheerfully, striding over to envelope her into a bear-hug. "Surely you're not back on board already?"

"She is." Grissom answered on her behalf, announcing his and Cath's arrival at the same time.

Nick and Warrick shared a look – one which did not go unnoticed by the rest of the room.

"Already?" Nick echoed, shuffling his feet. "Are you sure she's ready?"

"_She's_ in the room." Sara pointed out, nudging his elbow with the magazine she had been lazily perusing until now.

"We're just going to see how we get on tonight." Cath mediated, taking a protective step towards to the girl. "And if things get too much, Sara will let us know. Won't you?"

It wasn't a question and so Sara didn't bother to dignify it with an answer. They both knew that Catherine would be watching her like a hawk all evening anyway.

"Alright, well..." Warrick pursed his lips tightly and nodded at the slips in Grissom's outstretched hand. "Are you going to share those out or are you keeping them all for yourself?"

Gil snapped back from whatever bemused trance he'd been in and cleared his throat.

"Yes. Warrick, you're going with Catherine and Sara." He instructed. "Nick, you're with me tonight. And when we get back, I want you to let Greg help with the evidence processing."

"But I thought he was..." the Texan trailed off, suddenly realising that Sara was still sitting behind him, oblivious to Greg's other investigative project. He straightened up and cleared his throat, trying to disguise his slip-up as smoothly as possible. "Right, no problem boss."

"Good." Gil nodded, his eyes narrowing when nobody made any attempt to move. "Well, cases won't solve themselves you know."

Sara was the first to react, clearly eager to get back to work. Cath, however, snatched her wrist before she could scamper too far ahead.

"Let me get the kits. I'll meet you at the car." She instructed, releasing the young CSI and flashing the still-frowning Grissom a beaming smile. "Relax Gil; I'll take care of her."

* * *

><p><strong>July 31st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Hallway<strong>

Whatever Hodges had been saying went right over Grissom's head as he spotted the object of his search retreating down the corridor.

"Catherine!" He called, abandoning David in the middle of the hall to catch up with the strawberry-blonde. "I've been looking for you." He explained breathlessly.

"Well, now you found me." Cath pointed out, letting him catch his breath back before they fell into step together.

"How's Sara doing?"

"She's fine; I left her helping Warrick with the evidence." She jerked her head in the direction of the layout room. "Stop worrying about her, she's doing okay."

"I can't help it." He scowled.

They had come to his office and, without waiting for an invitation, she followed him inside and shut the door. Having worked together for several years, she was naturally in tune with his subtle facial twitches and right now she got the impression that there was something he wanted to ask her in private.

"What?" She encouraged uncertainly when he continued to appraise her from a safe distance behind his desk. "What is it?"

After an achingly long minute, he sank into his seat and dragged a weathered hand over his face.

"Catherine," he chewed over the words in his mouth for a minute, contemplating his phrasing carefully. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

She cocked an eyebrow.

"Anything like..?"

"Like you and Sara?" He pressed awkwardly. "Like why you can't keep your hands off her?"

Catherine choked out a laugh, her eyes bulging in surprise.

"Since when?" She spluttered.

"Since tonight, in the break room. Or, when she was in the hospital."

"Gil, after everything she's been through, can you forgive me for being a little protective of her?" She demanded, dropping into the chair opposite him and throwing her hands out exasperatedly. "I mean, for a while there I genuinely thought we'd lost her – and so did you."

"I know," he admitted, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "But this is ... different. _You're_ different."

She raised an eyebrow slowly, pushing herself back to her feet in measured movements. He looked up at her, trying to deduce what she was thinking from the array of emotions flashing across her face.

Ordinarily, he could read her like a book – just like she could him. But now he couldn't be sure whether she wanted to slap him or burst into tears.

When she finally spoke again, her voice was weaker than he expected.

"Sara's fine, Gil. She's back where she belongs. Can't you just be happy with that?"

* * *

><p><strong>July 31st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room<strong>

"Do you mind?"

Warrick started at the voice.

"What?"

Sara flicked her eyes up from the microscope and shot him a cheeky smile.

"You're staring. It's very off-putting."

He chuckled, ambling around the bench to join her.

"Sorry." He placed a gentle hand on her back. "I just want to check that you're still here."

She relaxed under his touch, straightening up.

"I'm not going anywhere." She promised, leaning into his shoulder. "Catherine wouldn't let me, even if I wanted to."

Warrick laughed, glad to see her sense of humour had not been lost in the midst of her violent kidnapping. When Nick had been stalked and attacked by his creepy cable guy, it had taken him weeks to crack a smile again – Rick didn't think he could handle that with Sara, too.

"No, I bet she wouldn't." He agreed, taking another moment to scrutinise his friend. Her movements, while still stiff and cautious, were natural. This was clearly where she felt most comfortable.

They had been concerned that - physically - she was not ready to return to work yet; and he still believed they were right about that. But emotionally, there was nowhere else in the world that she should be.

"Hey Sar," he enquired, sidling around to her other side, where he perched on the edge of a stool.

"Yeah?"

"I gotta ask, why didn't you tell us about paying for your mother's care?"

She stilled, her eyes raising slowly from her work to meet his.

"Why do you think?"

"Oh, Sara, baby." He laughed, swiping a hand across his mouth. "Look at who you're talking to. I know how it feels to struggle and be too proud to ask for help."

Her lips twitched into a half-smile.

"I know. But it's not that simple – my mother, my whole life really ... it's just been..."

The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she just couldn't find a way to voice them. Warrick sighed, looping an arm around her waist and tugging her closer.

"Holly died because I was at rock bottom." He pointed out, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Trust me, there's nothing in this world you could tell me that would make me judge you."

Sara closed her eyes, savouring the feeling of being safe and secure in his grip. As she exhaled, her breath ruffling the collar of his shirt, he felt the gentle shudder of her ribcage against his arm.

"I wouldn't count on that."


	34. August 6th 2004

**August 6th, 2004 - - Hayes Valley Care Home, San Francisco  
><strong>

Greg sucked in a deep breath, before stepping over the threshold into the imposing red-brick building; remembering for the tenth time today why the only thing he hated more than hospitals was care homes.

But this was a necessary part of his job. If he were to have any chance of piecing together the true events that occurred on the evening Max died, he needed to speak to everyone who was present – starting with Laura.

Shaking away the cold ghostly feelings filtering through his body, he gripped the leather-bound case in his hand tighter and stepped up to the front desk.

"Excuse me..."

"Sign the visitor's log." The woman tasked with guarding the entrance barked; not even bothering to spare him a glance from the trashy novel she was reading.

"I'm not a visitor." Greg cleared his throat, mildly perturbed by the blunt response. "I'm from the Las Vegas Crime Lab."

This time the girl snapped her head up, giving him a once-over before swinging her feet off the desk and launching herself to her feet. She was young enough to be the granddaughter of most people in here, with dyed-purple pixie-cut hair and an array of piercings in her left ear. Not what he expected from a care assistant.

Then again, judging by her muted reaction, he wasn't exactly what she expected either.

"Mr Saunders?" She guessed uncertainly.

"Sanders." He corrected with a tight smile. "Greg."

"Right, sorry." She nodded, fumbling around on the untidy desk until she located a set of elusive keys. "Here, let me show you the way. It's Laura you want to see, right?"

"That's right." He followed her down the winding corridor, struggling to keep up with her quick pace despite her towering heels. On either side of the hallway were an endless line of locked doors, and behind each one lay a whole novella of unhappy endings.

They came to a stop outside one of these very doors and the girl fumbled with the keys for a minute before finally getting it unlocked. She pushed the door open but didn't step inside, holding it ajar for him to slide through instead.

"Take as long as you need." She instructed with an oddly blasé shrug. "But don't be surprised if she's not very co-operative."

Greg watched her leave, closing the door behind her, before he turned to survey the room.

It reminded him of his college dorm room, only cleaner. A single bed pushed up against the wall and a small chest of drawers, atop which sat a little TV and radio.

Neither were switched on, leaving Greg to combat the unsettling silence unaided.

Sitting on the end of the bed, staring blankly out of a small, dusty window, sat a middle-aged woman with dark tresses falling halfway down her back.

"Hi." He coughed softly, attempting to get her attention. "Laura?"

She turned, dark glassy eyes dragging painfully slow over his body, before she turned wordlessly back to the window. Other than these careful movements, she was perfectly still. Her shoulders drooped, as if she was constantly living under an invisible weight.

For a moment, Greg thought she must have looked right through him; when she emitted an almost inaudible sigh.

"It's going to rain later." She declared calmly.

* * *

><p><strong>August 6th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Morgue<strong>

"Lady Catherine." Doc Robbins greeted jovially. "Here about your floater, I presume?"

"As much as I enjoy your company, yes I am." She shot him a grin, which turned into a grimace as she stared down at the decomposed remains. "Do we have a name yet?"

"No. And no fingerprints either. I've sent samples to DNA and tox."

"Cause of death?" She tried again, though she could already hazard a safe guess.

"Pretty simple." The coroner shrugged, pointing to the blatant hole in what remained of the skull. "He was shot. Bobby has the bullet."

"I'll drop in on him on my way back." She exhaled, taking a pointed step back before breathing in again. "Thanks Doc. Let me know when you get the tox results back."

"Catherine," he called before she could escape the pungent room. "I wanted to ask ... how's Sara doing?"

"She's fine," Cath nodded, choosing to remain half-out of the door, if only for the prospect of marginally fresher air. "It's going to take some time, but she's getting there."

"Good." He nodded, pursing his lips. "And, how are you?"

There was a distinctive edge to his question that drew her back into the room.

"What do you mean?"

To her further unease, he laughed.

"I think you know what I mean." He raised an eyebrow. "You've been jumpy ever since she went missing; and now she's back, you daren't leave her alone for more than a few minutes at a time."

"Well, I'm worried about her." Cath answered, attempting to swallow the unsettling feelings bubbling inside her. She was beginning to resent the frequency of these gilded comments about her new-found affection for the brunette.

"Yes," Albert agreed, clicking his way around the bench towards her. "But there's worried and there's _worried_."

"Sara's fine, Al." She said, a glimpse of irritation flashing across her face for just a second before the mask of professionalism fell naturally back into place. "And so am I."

"Good." He nodded, giving her a brief, but somewhat obvious, once-over. Satisfied that the conversation was finished, she made to leave again. This time when Al spoke to hold her back, there was no denying the tone to his voice. "Sara's been through a lot, Catherine. Whatever you're going to do, make sure she can handle it."

She whirled around, guilt barely disguised behind her shock.

"I don't want to see her get hurt." Robbins continued firmly. "Or you."

For an achingly long moment, neither moved; a silent battle being fought in the heavy atmosphere hanging between them. Finally, as Cath fumbled behind her for the door handle, she found her voice again; though there was no hiding the hurt in it this time.

"Call me when you get those results back."

* * *

><p><strong>August 7th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, DNA Lab<strong>

"You can't be serious?" Nick shook his head with a baffled frown. "You're pulling the plug?"

"I don't have a choice." Greg moped into his cupped hands. "I can't do that to her again. I can't put her through another interview."

"Do you want to solve this case or not?" Warrick chipped in from his spot at the bench, perusing lazily through a folder.

"Of course I do!" He exclaimed in frustration. "But not at that cost."

"Come on Greggo, you said it yourself: she's the only witness to what happened in that room."

"You guys didn't see Laura. She's a broken woman."

He hadn't really known what to expect, but upon meeting the vegetable that Sara's mother had become, he couldn't help but feel eternally sorry for the woman. Whether or not Angelo killed Max by his own hand, he had successfully destroyed his daughter.

"She might be the only way to prove Angelo's a murderer." Warrick pointed out, eating into his thoughts.

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Greg was pacing by now, his hands gesticulating wildly. "I'm not going to hurt Laura more just to put an old gangster away for a few years."

"What about Sara?" Nick chipped in, swinging around in the swivel chair to follow Greg's frantic movements. "Don't you think she has the right to know the truth about her family? That her mother _isn't_ a murderer?"

"Yeah, great!" Greg scoffed. "So, I can tell her instead that her grandfather killed her father and let his own daughter take the fall for it – do you honestly think that that's going to make her feel better?"

"Maybe not," Warrick conceded. "But if she finds out that you knew and you lied to her about it..."

"Who's lying?" He challenged. "I just want to wait until she's strong enough to deal with it before I talk to her about it."

Nick shifted in his chair, chewing over his next words.

"Greg, no offence man, but I think Warrick and I know Sara a little better than you do."

Greg spun around on the spot, a rare display of anger playing out on his boyish features.

"This isn't your case Nick!" Greg informed the Texan testily, his voice rising to a level they had never heard from the normally placid young man. "You don't get a say in it!"

The CSIs recoiled, stunned. This was a new side to their colleague and one that neither were too fond of. Both men opened their mouths, eager to offer a defence of their views; however the heated debate was quickly silenced by the soft sound of somebody clearing their throat.

None of them could know exactly how long Sara had been stood there, but the silent tears in her eyes said that she had heard enough.

"Sara, I..." Greg stammered, his cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

She stepped timidly into the room at first; before approaching more boldly, her lips pursed tightly together.

"Do I get a say in it?"


	35. August 7th 2004

**August 7th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, DNA Lab**

The boys didn't' move, daren't speak. Sara's expression belayed a whole host of emotions battling for superiority, but it was the look of heartbreak in her eyes that made Greg's stomach knot.

"You weren't supposed to find out like this." He squeaked shamefacedly.

"No?" She asked, her voice quivering as she risked a shaky step forward. "How was I supposed to find out? In six months time when my grandfather goes to court for murder?"

"Sara, honey..." Nick, finally finding his tongue, approached her tentatively with his arms outstretched.

"Don't." She snapped, moving out of his reach. "Don't 'honey' me. How long have you known about this?"

"It's ... it's complicated." He said awkwardly, dodging the question. "We're still not sure exactly what happened – that's why we didn't say anything..."

Sara scoffed, oblivious to the angry tears starting to creep down her ashen face.

"I don't believe you guys." She muttered, turning on her heel and disappearing as fast as her injured body would allow.

"Sara, wait!" Greg ran after her, pushing violently past Nick on his way; but by the time he made it into the corridor, she had already vanished.

He whirled around, slamming a fist into the doorframe.

"Damn it!"

* * *

><p><strong>August 7th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Hallway  Parking Lot**

Catherine clawed her hands frenetically through her hair. She had been stressed before she even came to work, but her conversation with Doc Robbins had left her uncharacteristically unsettled.

She loved Doc, but she couldn't believe that he had the nerve to insinuate that she would take advantage of Sara's vulnerable state.

There was something else bothering her as well; something that she was doing her best to ignore. How on earth did Robbins know? Sure, several people had commented on her sudden affection for Sara recently, but so far none of them had pegged the reason for it.

What had Doc seen that so many, including herself for a long time, had missed?

As she was busy pondering this en route back to her office, she was almost tripped up by a sight that made her heart jump.

Sara was dashing through the corridor towards the main entrance, tears streaming from her eyes as she forced her way between groups of idly chatting lab techs.

Cath took off in pursuit, barely even hearing Greg's outburst from the DNA lab.

Outside, it was just starting to rain, with solitary drops leaving large circular spots all over her crisp white shirt as she jogged across the parking lot. Sara had come to a stop at the farthest side, doubled over against a wall as if she were in pain.

"Sara!" Catherine gasped, skidding to a halt beside her and clutching her arms tightly. "Sara, honey, what's wrong?"

Sara spun around so fast it almost took Catherine off her feet. Her face was streaked with fresh tear tracks, mingling with the rain.

"Did you know as well?" She demanded. Catherine blinked, stunned.

"Know what?" She asked, trying and failing to re-claim her hold on Sara's arms as the brunette fought her off. "Sara, babe, what's happened?"

Sara took a determined step away, her eyes narrowed and hurt.

"Did you know about my father's death? About my grandfather?"

Like the boys, Catherine didn't say a word, but the silent horror dancing on her face spoke volumes. Sara pursed her lips, nodding tightly.

"Great." She muttered, turning and stalking across the empty parking lot. But she wasn't walking towards the lab. She was heading for the street, towards the dizzying lights of downtown Vegas.

Gathering herself together again, Cath darted after her.

"Sara, wait!" She gripped her wrist, swinging her back around. "Here, just, come here..."

She tugged the girl towards a sheltered area beneath overhanging trees. The bench was rotten, the paint chipped, but at least it was out of the rain. Reluctantly, Sara allowed herself to be dragged and sank heavily onto the seat.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about this? How long have you known?" She demanded, her voice cracking with the weight of emotion building inside her tight chest.

Catherine sat down too and pinned her shaking hands between her knees. She wanted to believe that they were trembling because of the cold dampness soaking into her clothes, but she knew deep down that that wasn't the case.

"It came up while we were searching for you. It got put on hold until you were safe, and then Grissom put Greg in charge of the investigation." She explained, figuring there was no sense holding anything back anymore. "We didn't want to tell you until we were sure you could handle it. We didn't want to upset you needlessly if it turned out not to be true."

"And is it?" Sara flicked her eyes up. Under the overcast sky, they looked black as night. "True?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask Greg that."

Sara released a shuddering breath, tilting her head towards the grey clouds. The rain was coming down hard now, large drops bouncing off cars like ping-pong balls. Somewhere in the distance, there was a rumble of thunder.

"Where did this even come from?" She asked at last. "I mean ... what did my father's death have to do with what happened to me?"

"It didn't, at least we didn't think it did." Cath shifted, daring to stretch out a hand and rest it on Sara's knee. "It was something your brother said – he believed that you had been taken because of the trust fund, because your grandfather wanted the money back that he had loaned to your father."

"The trust ... that's what you meant when you said you were sorting it?" Sara realised aloud, shaking her head.

Cath nodded, sighing sadly.

"Dylan saw two men leave your house the night your father died. He knew that Angelo had given him a loan and he assumed that the men had been sent to 'collect' on that."

"Hit men?" Sara raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Dylan didn't see anything that night, he didn't arrive until after the..."

She trailed off, swallowing hard around the resurrected memory. In all the years that had passed, she had never questioned what her eldest brother was doing back at the house that night.

Catherine slowly moved her grip from Sara's knee to her hand, where she interlocked their fingers loosely. The thunder was moving rapidly closer, so much so that it was almost above them now. Like fate, hanging over them, it was listening to every beat of their hearts, waiting for the moment when the pressure became too much.

Waiting for the moment that they broke.

"I think that's something you need to talk to Dylan about."

* * *

><p><strong>August 8th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Tangiers Casino, Hotel Room 204<strong>

Dylan stumbled, tripping over his own feet in his hurry to answer the incessant hammering on his door.

It was three o'clock in the morning and he certainly didn't remember ordering room service, so he couldn't work out who could be so desperate to be in his hotel room at this time of night.

However, he didn't have to wait long to find out; as soon as the door was open, he was nearly knocked down by a brunette whirlwind storming past him.

"Were you ever planning on telling me, or were you going to take this sordid little secret to your grave?"

"Sara?" He blinked, barely believing of his own eyes. "What's going on, are you alright?"

His blonde hair was askew with sleep and his t-shirt was crumpled, but he was wide awake.

"Our grandfather killed our dad?" She queried, sparing no thought to his concern for her welfare. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Dylan's cheeks flushed, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. As a child, he had been a prolific liar, spinning tale after tale of believable stories to their parents and his teachers and anyone else who came too close to discovering the truth.

But he had never been able to lie to her. No matter how convincing his web became, she could tear it apart with a single look. He was getting that look right now.

"They told you about it then, huh?" He asked sheepishly.

"No, they didn't." She barked. "And neither did you."

"Come on Sar," he ruffled his hair, trying to dredge up one of the many excuses he had been giving himself for the last twenty years. "How could I? You and Seth were just kids when it happened and then we lost contact for so long..."

"No, we didn't lose contact." She challenged, jabbing him sharply in the chest. "You walked out on us."

He dropped his head, knowing that there was no way he could win this argument.

Sara used his silence as a moment to pause herself, cocking her head to the side.

"Does Seth know?"

"No." Dylan looked up, tears that hadn't been there before suddenly glistening in his eyes. "I didn't know how to tell him, either."

"So you'd rather let us grow up believing our mother was a murderer?"

"Would it make you feel any better knowing that your grandfather was a murderer who let his daughter take the rap for him?" He asked. "Mom's sick, Sara. Even if she had killed Max, who could have blamed her? At least this way, she got the help she needed."

"She didn't need to spend the rest of her life in a care home." She snarled. "She didn't deserve that!"

"That would have happened anyway, and you know it." He pointed out. "She needed help a long time before Max died."

Sara couldn't argue with the point, as much as she wanted to. Instead, she began to pace around the spacious room so she didn't have to meet his soulful eyes any longer.

"Now I know why you couldn't bear to see her." She mused bitterly. "I always thought you were just selfish, but I guess it was a guilty conscience keeping you away."

He pursed his lips.

"Maybe a little of both." He conceded. "I couldn't face what happened to her – or you. I felt like such a failure, like you'd all be better off without me around. So I left."

"Yeah, don't I know it." Sara sank onto the small couch and he quickly approached her, dropping to his knees on the thick rug.

"Sara, girl ..." he paused, considering reaching out towards her but quickly thinking better of it.

Even as a kid, there were times when it was best not to touch her unless you were looking to get punched. The difference now was that she could probably hurt him if she really wanted to. He licked his lips in thought, trying to think of a way to cross the bridge blazing between them.

To her indignant surprise, he chuckled.

"If I knew this was the way to get you to talk to me, I'd have told you ages ago."

Sara flicked her eyes up to his, chocolate brown meeting ocean blue for the first time in more years than either could recall. Hers were filled with hurt, his with remorse.

Without a word, she landed a solid punch on his shoulder, causing him to rock backwards against the coffee table. He was right, she could hurt him.

"I'm still mad at you." She snapped, even as she began to lose her battle with the empathic smile trying to fight its way onto her pouting lips.


	36. August 12th 2004

**Hopefully, only a few chapters left. Not entirely happy with this one, but I wanted to get it up.**

* * *

><p><strong>August 12th, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Locker Room<strong>

"Gil thinks I'm over-reacting." She moped. "He thinks I should leave them to work it out amongst themselves."

Warrick placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as he wandered behind her towards his locker.

"Maybe that's not such bad advice – given that it came from Grissom."

A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but she fought it back.

"That's just it – I don't think I can. I've been trying so hard to protect her from all of this; I don't think I could just walk away now."

"So, talk to her." Warrick suggested, tugging his t-shirt over his head and revealing a toned, sweat-soaked chest. The heat today had been unbearable, not that Catherine seemed aware of it or of its effect on the attractive CSI, as she continued to stare pensively at her own closed locker.

"She won't talk to me." She sulked. "She's upset with me for keeping it from her."

"Join the club." Warrick snorted. "She won't give me or Nick the time of day; and Greg looks like someone ran over his favourite puppy."

Catherine hummed in agreement, but she wasn't listening; too absorbed in her own predicament to care about their hurt feelings.

"I just don't know how much more she can take." She sighed. "She's been through so much already."

"Hey, Sara's a tough girl." Warrick assured her, extracting a clean shirt from his locker and sliding it over his shoulders, revealing in the brief feeling of cool fabric against his blazing skin. "She'll get through this."

"She's not as tough as she likes to make out." Cath countered morosely. "She's very vulnerable right now. Something like this could tip her over the edge."

Warrick turned and leant his back against the cold metal doors, observing her for a moment. She, like Greg, had been in a bad mood all week. But it was more than that now – she looked positively despondent; as if her whole world was gradually starting to fall apart at the seams.

With a weary sigh, Warrick pushed himself off the wall and crouched down in front of her, his shirt still hanging open to reveal his bare chest. Catherine's eyes flicked briefly over his body, before settling on his emerald green gaze. Ordinarily, her heart would have skipped a beat at the sight, but not today.

Not for a while, actually, she realised. Shaking away the perplexing thought, she tried to focus on what Warrick was saying.

"Cath, whatever is or isn't going on between you and her right now, you're probably the only person who knows how to get through to her."

There was something in the tone of his voice that made her suddenly feel like she was sitting under a spotlight.

"What's your point?" She asked cagily, drawing a dry chuckle from him.

"My point is, go for it. Whatever you need to do to help her deal with it, do it. Lord knows, the rest of us don't stand a chance!"

She scowled at him, feeling her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and shame at being caught out.

"Is there a sign stuck on my back or something?" She questioned.

"No." Warrick laughed, lurching forward to peck her cheek before standing up and sailing towards the door, finally fastening his shirt as he went. "It's written all over your face."

* * *

><p><strong>February 28th 1984 - - Napa State Hospital, Napa, California<strong>

Sara heard her brother suck in a deep breath, so she did the same.

Both were accompanied by their respective social workers. Sara's was a young woman named Paige, a sprightly red-head whose hand the child refused to release. Seth's was an older woman in her late forties with grey streaks starting to creep through her once midnight black locks. The resemblance between her and the kids' embittered old next-door neighbour was uncanny, and gave neither of them much faith in her apparent kindness.

Seth had been silent for the entire car journey. Sara had initially tried to initiate conversation, having not spoken to him since the night their father was killed. But received nothing in response, she had given up and the two sat side-by-side in the car in contemplative silence for the remainder of the ride.

Even now, the boy continued to stare straight ahead despite Sara's muted attempts to get his attention. She was frightened and she wanted his support, but it seemed that foster care had already hardened her formally-sensitive big brother. For the first time in her short life, she could see elements of their father in his sweet face – the hard-set jaw and the ocean blue eyes as cold as stone, set into a deep purple bruise.

Whatever was going on in his new home, it obviously wasn't much of an improvement on his previous one. Then again, Sara's wasn't exactly a picnic either.

Paige glanced down at the trembling little girl and offered a comforting smile.

"You ready?"

She wasn't, but she knew that's not what they wanted to hear. So, she nodded and tightened her grip on the young woman's hand.

The heavy metallic door slammed shut behind them, trapping them inside. They were signed in and a tall security guard with a blank, emotionless expression bent down and clipped visitor's badges to the children's clothing.

"Wait in the lounge." He barked gruffly, before retreating back to his sanctuary behind the high desk.

The entourage turned, making their way deeper into the warren-like building. Facing them was a never-ending corridor, lined with room after room of identical little prisons.

Behind one of them, Sara thought to herself, her mother would be sat waiting for them; her hands clasped between her knees nervously, a tentative smile playing on her face as she eagerly awaited the arrival of her children.

However, they weren't taken down the corridor. Instead, they were ushered to the right and into a large sitting room area, with tables on one side and well-worn sofas on the other. In the far corner was a little kitchen area, where a couple of people in standard issue pyjamas were wordlessly making sandwiches.

"Breathe through your mouth." She jumped at the words, hissed an inch behind her ear. Seth had barely even looked at her since leaving the social workers' office, but now he was standing impossibly close, close enough to hear her heart pounding beneath her brand new, neatly-pressed t-shirt. She followed his instruction and felt the tightness in her chest loosen a little.

"Thanks." She whispered back to him, sliding her free hand into his. For once, he didn't retract it.

"Why don't you take a seat?" A nurse suggested to the women, gesturing towards the empty tables. "Laura will be in shortly."

Laura. Her momma.

The kids were walked towards one of the tables, where they sat side-by-side, impatiently swinging their legs. It was so reminiscent of a school lunchroom; Sara felt her stomach knot involuntarily. They were flanked by their social workers and, though Sara had finally found the courage to let go of Paige's hand, she continued to glance at her every few seconds - just to make sure that she was still there.

Someone brought over two plastic cups of orange juice and placed them in front of the children with a kind smile, though neither were very thirsty.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think this was just a community meeting house for people to come and have a chat over a cup of coffee. But the smell was the giveaway. The sickly, sterile smell of lies.

Seth was staring at his hands, folded neatly on the table top, but Sara couldn't take her eyes off the door. She had been waiting for this moment for weeks; but now it was here, she wanted nothing more than to leave. Everything about this place felt oppressive, heavy – as if an avalanche had landed on the building and was weighing it down into the ground.

Would her mother feel that way too? Would the atmosphere in this terrible place have gotten to her already, dragging her so far into the darkness that she couldn't even manage a smile for her kids?

Would she even recognise them?

* * *

><p><strong>August 12th, 2004 - - Sara Sidle's Apartment <strong>

Perhaps it was because the nightmare was still so fresh in her mind, or perhaps it was just pure human instinct; but her surprise at being forced back into her own apartment with a fierce kiss spawned a surge of strength that she didn't know she possessed.

Catherine whimpered as her back hit the doorframe, her blue eyes wide and equally as startled as Sara's; as if even she wasn't sure what had just happened.

"What the hell?" Sara blinked, her tongue darting out subconsciously to taste the kiss still lingering on her lips. "What was that?"

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Catherine babbled, holding up her hands in defence. "It wasn't supposed to come out like that."

The early-morning knock at the door had been unexpected enough; but to be greeted by her colleague – her female colleague – launching herself over the threshold and sticking her tongue down her throat was not something Sara ever imagined would happen.

Except, perhaps, in her wildest dreams.

She continued to appraise the older woman from a safe distance, with one eyebrow arched in sceptical question.

"Sara, please..." Cath stepped closer, her expression increasingly pained, though it had nothing to do with the bruises developing on her spine. Sara quickly moved out of her way, still reeling from the bizarre greeting.

She was in her sleepwear – short-shorts and a warm hooded top – and her hair was ruffled, yet she looked more beautiful than Catherine had ever seen her. But there was fear in her eyes that Cath couldn't help feeling guilty for putting there.

"I'm sorry." She repeated. "Warrick told me to come over and try to get through to you; I spent the whole journey planning what I was going to say and _that_ wasn't it, but..." She had begun to pace, her hands gesturing wildly as she ranted to herself.

"Catherine, what do you ... what did you want?" Sara managed to interrupt, blindly manoeuvring around the furniture until she fell gracelessly onto the couch.

What did she want? Oh, how many answers she could give to that question.

Taking a deep breath, she moved to perch on the corner of the coffee table – careful not to startle the girl again – and tried to organise her thoughts into a coherent statement.

"I came to talk to you."

"Okay." Sara nodded expectantly, her mask of indifference firmly in place by now. "So talk."

* * *

><p><strong>February 28th 1984 - - Napa State Hospital, Napa, California<strong>

Sara needn't have worried about her mother's memory; it was clearly the only thing still working. She had recognised the children instantly and practically bounded across the room towards them.

But even with that encouraging welcome, Sara couldn't help but feel like she was hugging a different woman to the one who she had left behind on that fateful night.

Gone were the floaty skirts and long beaded necklaces that had always adorned her neck. Gone, too, was the strong jawline and classically high cheekbones. Instead, she looked gaunt and exhausted, her haunted eyes searching the room as if looking through a thick fog. She was dressed like everybody else, in a bland grey outfit set.

Her mother had never looked like everyone else as long as Sara had known her.

However, when she finally pulled back to look at her daughter properly, a sparkle flickered in her weary brown orbs and a familiar warm smiled graced her face for just a moment.

"Mi figlia. My little girl." Laura murmured, dragging slender fingers through the child's silky locks. She smelt different, Sara thought. Like hospitals and medicine. Yet she didn't want to let go.

Eventually, a gentle hand on Sara's shoulder prised her away and she was tugged reluctantly out of her mother's embrace.

Laura straightened up too, wiping her eyes, and looked to the little boy still watching her cautiously from behind the table.

"Seth?" She asked, holding out her arms in hopeful question.

Sara watched him too, from her position pressed against Paige's side. Seth had always been the most loving of all the children – the happy, playful one of the household. Even when Max's moods were at their very worst, he could find something to smile about.

Now, he didn't smile. He didn't speak.

In one swift movement, he knocked over his drink and hurled himself out of his chair.

"Seth!" His social worker shouted, sprinting after him at a pace that would be considered impressive for a woman ten years her junior.

The outburst caused a ripple of distress to run throughout the room, as other residents now watched the scene with a mix of intrigue and angst. The nurses, too, suddenly became stiff and agitated with the ruckus.

Clearly, such behaviour was not tolerated in here.

Paige tightened her grip on Sara, holding her close to her body as she attempted to shield the girl from the sudden burst of activity as Seth tore through the building towards the main entrance.

But it wasn't Seth that Sara was concerned with. Her attention was fixed on their mother. Laura's expression remained blank, a side effect of the drugs they were pumping into her, but her eyes were laden with despair.

Without waiting to be told by the nurses, she turned around and sloped back towards the door.

Sara called out to her; at least she thought that she did, but in this place all words seem to be absorbed and sucked away before they could materialise into sound.

It was in that moment, as she was led outside by her social worker – the woman placed in charge of her destiny – that she realised just how much their lives had come to mirror each other's.

Seth was leaning sulkily against the car, being lectured sternly by his own personal kommandant, when they stepped outside into the chilling February wind. It was bleak, the perfect day for her depressing epiphany.

Dylan was lost and roaming the streets alone. Laura was confined to a psychiatric hospital. And Sara and Seth's fates were in the hands of the state. Since Max's death, they had all been isolated, torn away from all the people they loved and needed; and, most tellingly, they no longer seemed to have a voice.


	37. August 12th 2004 (cont)

**August 12th, 2004 - - Sara Sidle's Apartment**

"You were right." She swallowed, her trained gaze studiously searching the small apartment in a vain attempt to avoid eye-contact.

She had been here enough times recently that she knew the layout by heart, but she continued to notice little details previously missed – minute elements of Sara's personality entrenched in the very fixings of the tiny flat.

"I should have told you about the investigation into your grandfather." She continued earnestly. "I just didn't want to hurt you any more ... you've been let down so much in your life already, I wasn't sure how much more you could take. I care about you so much, more than you know..."

Sara hadn't moved, her expression remaining utterly unreadable as she stared at her rambling companion. But there was a flicker of something behind her indifferent mask, something that gave Catherine an ounce of hope.

"I was ... confused, scared. I didn't want to deal with the repercussions. But I've always cared about you – I've always wanted _more_. I just never thought it was a possibility." She shifted; her knee brushed against Sara's, causing an involuntary shudder to ripple through the brunette's body. "I'm sorry, I know this probably doesn't mean a lot to you; but I wanted you to hear it."

She trailed off, an achingly long silence immediately filling the void between them.

Finally, just as Catherine was beginning to feel like she was drowning in the wordless emptiness, Sara cleared her throat. Cath straightened up in anticipation of the barrage of anger and frustration that was no doubt to follow.

But Sara's voice was calm, almost amused, as her eyes finally met the other woman's and glistened with something that she hadn't seen in a long time.

"You probably should have started with that."

* * *

><p><strong>August 14th 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Locker Room<strong>

She winced as her fingertips grazed the scar, though it was more of a psychological pain than a physical one.

"Damn." She muttered, forcing herself to touch it again. It was still tender, but she refused to let it beat her. It wasn't exactly like she could ignore it, after all; it was the first thing she saw every morning.

"It's not that bad, you know."

She turned, embarrassed to be caught out, and quickly dropped her hand to her side.

"I know." She exhaled, feeling her cheeks flush. "But I still wish it wasn't there."

Greg nudged himself off the wall and ambled towards her.

"Yeah, I know that feeling." He shrugged. At her puzzled frown, he began calmly unbuttoning his shirt.

In four years working together, Greg had never shown more skin than absolutely necessary. They had all assumed that, lurking somewhere behind his cocky confidence, there was still a skinny fifteen-year-old boy cowering in the shadows of the school locker room. The truth, she was about to realise, was much more simple. He twisted around, shrugging out of his shirt and baring his left shoulder to her, revealing a large patch of gnarled and rippled skin.

Sara stared at it, her narrowed eyes tracing the outline. When he failed to cover up straight away, she moved tentatively closer and stretched out a hand to dance her fingers over the scar.

"The lab explosion?" she realised aloud. The incident last year had shaken her up at the time, but now it felt like a million miles away.

Of course, Greg had come out of it much worse than she had. Clearly, worse than anyone remembered.

"Yeah." He agreed hoarsely. "But I dealt with it. And it's really not that bad, after a while."

She dropped her hand and sank onto the bench, while he quickly fastened his shirt back up.

"I just wish I didn't have to see it every time I looked in the mirror." She sighed despondently.

"Yeah, I know." He pursed his lips, joining her on the seat. "But look at it this way: you survived, and every time you look in the mirror, you'll remember that."

A wistful smile appeared on her face, if just for a moment.

"Thanks Greggo." She said, patting his knee appreciatively. He leant closer and pressed a kiss to her cheek, taking an opportunistic moment to inhale the exotic scent of her conditioner.

"You're welcome."

She watched him stride back to the door, where he turned to her again once he was a safe distance away.

"And hey, if it starts to get you down just remember one thing:" he shot her a raised eyebrow and a knowing grin. "Catherine loves you, scars or no scars."

* * *

><p><strong>September 1st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse <strong>

You could be forgiven for thinking that you'd woken up twenty years into the past.

The scene that greeted them outside the courthouse was like something out of the 1985 Mafia Commission Trials, with excited journalists bounding up and down the concrete steps, eagerly searching for a quote from the endless stream of aging men in sharp suits emerging out of stretch limos.

The Sheriff and Undersheriff were already halfway up the steps - with Grissom reluctantly bringing up the rear - attempting to field off the torrent of questions being thrown at them.

Across the parking lot, Catherine slipped her hand into Sara's and squeezed gently.

"You sure you want to do this?"

Sara didn't take her eyes off the commotion playing out before them, but she audibly gulped at the soft enquiry.

"Do I have a choice?"

Catherine wanted to tell her that she did, that they could turn around and go home and pretend that none of this was happening. But the sad fact was, Sara was right. Even if she hadn't agreed to testify, there was no way she could ignore this. In the next few days, everything she thought she knew about her childhood was going to be ripped apart at the seams.

Beside them, another car pulled up and Sara's siblings clambered out.

"Hey," Dylan greeted, leaning between the women to peck Sara's cheek. His locks had been reigned in and gelled into submission, giving him the look of a reluctant teenager dragged to a family photo shoot. Seth, in comparison, appeared naturally suave in a navy suit, with his blonde hair combed neatly into a dapper 1940s style 'do.

"Wow, this is quite a circus." The younger brother noted, scratching his jaw nervously. "You guys really don't do things by half in Vegas, huh?"

"Not when the mob is concerned." Catherine agreed dryly. "The press hasn't had this much excitement since the last Jimmy Hoffa sighting."

A pristine white limo had pulled up and it was one that the blonde would recognise a mile away. Sara spotted it too and shot her companion a sideways look.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Cath straightened up; oblivious to the irony of Sara asking _her_ that question. "I'm fine."

The hulking figure climbed out awkwardly, placing a grateful hand on his drivers arm as he straightened up. Catherine recognised _him_, too. In fact, she realised with dismay, she knew most of the people taking the stand here today.

This trial had turned into a who's who of who's anyone.

Sam turned on his way towards the steps and caught sight of her. For a long few seconds, neither moved, locked in a staring contest across the vacuous parking lot. They could have been looking at each other from opposite sides of the galaxy and they wouldn't have felt more apart than they did right now.

"Fucking hell!"

Warrick's eloquent greeting interrupted the long-distance battle of wills. When Catherine recovered from her shock to glance back, Sam was already on his way through the imposing courthouse doors.

"Man, even the national news stations have picked this up." Nick noted with a hint of amazement.

"Thirty skeletons in the desert, a Mafia hit from 1958 ... of course they're interested." Greg shrugged nonchalantly, even though he had enough butterflies in his stomach to rival the ones on Grissom's wall. "Who wouldn't be?"

"Well." Dylan cleared his throat, feeling somewhat like an intruder amongst Sara's friends. "Shall we..."

"Yeah." Sara exhaled a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around herself. "No sense delaying the inevitable."

The little group took a moment to gather their strength, before embarking on the longest walk of their lives towards the familiar building.

Sara, flanked by both her brothers, went first; with Catherine inches behind, surrounded by Nick, Warrick and Greg. A couple of feet behind, Jim Brass followed wordlessly with Officer Mitchell and Detective Vega acting as backup.

On this day 65 years ago, allied troops marched across countries against Europe's common enemy. Today, that spirit of comradeship remained in force as the team marched up the steps as one unity, ready to go up against the biggest crime syndicate in United States history.


	38. September 1st 2004

**September 1st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse**

The preliminary, or pre-trial, hearing was simply to determine whether or not the District Attorney had enough evidence to go to a full trial. Ordinarily, the burden of proof was in the prosecution's favour – all they had to prove was that there was enough evidence to _suggest_ the defendants committed the offence. However, this was no ordinary case and these men were no ordinary defendants.

Sam Braun and Angelo Valentino were charged with conspiracy to murder Joseph Acerbi. Angelo was also charged with orchestrating the murder of Max Sidle. Herman Jonas and Jorge Episcopo, the two men charged with carrying out the order, were also in the dock.

Alongside them, a dozen aging mobsters were accused of having involvement in stolen casino chips, disposing of bodies, smuggling weapons, drugs and anything else they could get their hands on ... not the mention the many dusty skeletons littering the Nevada Desert.

And of course, Raymond Acerbi and Bobby Masserio Junior were charged with murdering Nino Carmine, as well as the kidnapping and attempted murder of one Sara Sidle.

Due to the complex nature of the case, the media were under strict rules about what they could and could not document. Thankfully, anything relating to Sara's kidnapping – including her testimony – was in the latter camp.

Unusually, the District Attorney had made the daring decision to charge all those involved in one mass trial rather than giving each of them a separate hearing. The result was going to be a long, drawn out court case with a lot of evidence and even more testimony – if it even went to court, of course.

In Nevada, preliminary hearings included evidence and witness testimony. Catherine, Grissom, Greg, Dylan, Seth and Brass were all going to take a turn on the stand alongside Sara herself. Sam, too, would be up there ... as would Angelo.

* * *

><p><strong>September 1st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Greg Sanders' Testimony<strong>

"Mr Sanders, you're a DNA analyst, correct?" The lawyer asked. "You told us that in your introduction."

"That's right." Greg agreed. Beneath the stand, he wiped his sweating hands on his pinstripe trousers nervously. It had taken twenty minutes to subdue his hair into a style befitting a professional investigator, but he still felt like a fraud sitting up here.

"So, investigation isn't your speciality. You deal in blood swabs and urine samples?"

"Among other things." He frowned, dismayed by the blatant derision of his job specification.

"But you are _not_ a criminal investigator."

"Not yet." He cleared his throat, attempting to exude an air of confidence that he simply did not possess. "I'm hoping to complete the proficiency tests shortly."

"Ah. An amateur." The lawyer grinned. "So, the evidence collected against my client," he gestured to Angelo sitting smugly behind the table, "is surely inadmissible?"

"No." Greg straightened up and squared his shoulders. He had been prepared for this question. "The crime your client is tried with occurred twenty-two years ago. There _is_ no physical evidence to speak of; my job was to review case notes and come to a decision based on the information that was available."

"And you've made that decision?"

"Yes."

There was a pause as the lawyer flicked his eyes towards the judge, who was tapping his pen against the bench in an irritating rhythm.

"Would you care to enlighten us?"

Greg's gaze travelled over Angelo's head, to where Sara was sitting. She wasn't looking at him, but he could tell that every word was reverberating through her fragile body. He cleared his throat again, closing his eyes against the painful sight of his best friend trying to fight off the tears she was desperate to shed.

"I believe the evidence shows that Angelo hired two men to murder his son-in-law, Max Sidle."

"And can you prove this?"

"We have a witness claiming to have seen two men leave the Sidle property that evening. And we have evidence of correspondence between Angelo Valentino, Herman Jonas and Jorge Episcopo suggesting that the last two were being paid a large amount of money for services rendered around the same time that Max died. All correspondence ended immediately after his death."

The lawyer nodded along in agreement, his lips pressed so tightly together they were barely visible.

"There's just one problem – Max's wife already admitted to killing him."

"Laura Sidle was discovered near the body in the middle of a schizophrenic episode. Her sentence was revoked in 1994, after it was determined that anything she said at the time was not reliable due to her state of mind." Greg countered swiftly - yet another of his well-rehearsed answers.

"But she did claim to have killed him?"

"She made statements that led the police to believe she was responsible; however she couldn't recall actually carrying out the act."

Deciding to try a different tactic, the lawyer spun around and gestured towards the audience, watching these proceedings play out with intrigue.

"You're friends with the defendant's granddaughter, correct?"

Again, Greg's eyes flicked to Sara, who had looked up by now and was studying the counsellor through narrowed eyes.

"Yes, I am." Greg agreed warily.

"In fact, this investigation only came out when Miss Sidle was kidnapped, correct?"

"Yes. Initially, Mr Valentino was a suspect in that investigation, which led to us re-opening the investigation into Max's murder."

"So, this is a witchhunt against my client?"

"Objection!" The DA jumped up, to a relieved sigh from the lab rat.

"Counsellor, please remember that this is just a preliminary hearing, not a trial." The judge pointed out exasperatedly. "You have the right to question witnesses, but do keep in mind the burden of proof is not yet 'beyond reasonable doubt'."

"Withdrawn." The lawyer flashed Greg a grin, simply glad to have unsettled the young man. For him, this was just a warm-up before the true production began. "No further questions."

As Greg sloped off the stand and back towards the bench, he noticed that Sara had once again submerged her gaze into her lap.

Since this was only the pre-trial hearing to determine whether or not the defendants would go to trial, there was no jury; just a judge and a handful of spectators. However, if her body-language was anything to go by, she felt like she was on a podium for the world to see right now.

* * *

><p><strong>September 1st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Dylan Sidle's Testimony<strong>

"Mr Sidle, when was the last time you and your sister spoke, before this incident occurred?"

Dylan answered, but his throat was so hoarse that his words were inaudible. He coughed and tried again.

"Um, I don't ... I don't know exactly. Several years." For a man who had undoubtedly seen the inside of his fair share of courtrooms, he looked desperately nervous. Anyone would think that he was the one on trial.

"So, you weren't close?"

"We lost touch after our father died. My brother and sister were placed in separate foster homes."

"But after they got out, you never made any attempt to contact them again?" The lawyer pressed firmly, a hint of judgement seeping into his expression. "Not even at Thanksgiving?"

"We spoke a couple of times, but ... things were distant between us."

"Why was that?"

This was it, the question he had been practising for. He had been coached on what answer he was supposed to give. But he had never been staring at his brother and sister in those practice runs.

"Because I'm a coward." He swallowed. The DA shifted at this deviance from the script, but Dyl didn't care. This was one question that he had been lying to himself about for too long – it was time to tell the truth. "The night my father died, I saw two men leave the house. When my mother was found guilty, I knew it was wrong but I was too scared to speak up. I felt guilty, because Seth and Sara were being punished as well as Laura, all because I chose to keep quiet."

"Why did you keep quiet? Surely, if you knew your mother was innocent..."

"I was angry." He admitted. "I was a stupid, angry teenager and I thought that my parents deserved everything that was coming to them."

"And your siblings? Did they deserve it?"

"No." Dylan sniffed, shaking his head. "No, they didn't. That's why I couldn't face them."

"So, why did you come back when your sister went missing?"

He relaxed a little into his seat as they reached a question that he could answer easily and his stony eyes softened.

"Because I still love her. And because I wanted to be there when she was found."

"And because you were still angry with your family and you thought it would be a good opportunity to stitch up another family member?"

"No." He burbled, wiping a hand across his face to catch the few tears starting to escape through his walls. "I thought that Sara had been taken because Angelo wanted the money back that he paid to Max. I thought he was doing it to get the trust fund that he'd left for us."

"You thought your grandfather had come back after twenty-two years and kidnapped his granddaughter to get some money he loaned your father, which got placed into a trust fund? That's a little extreme, don't you think?"

For the first time, Dylan levelled his gaze with the man sitting perfectly still behind the large oak bench.

"No more extreme than killing a man over a few bucks."

* * *

><p><strong>September 1st, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Jim Brass' Testimony<strong>

"Detective Brass." The lawyer wheezed. Inexperienced young men and shifty delinquents he could handle – he had been doing so all his life – but this seasoned cop was a whole new ball game. He would have to be very careful how he tread here. "How long have you worked for the police?"

"Thirty-four years." As the lawyer expected, the answer was delivered with a straight-laced tone and a blank expression.

"Impressive. And how many of those years have been spent in Las Vegas?"

"Fourteen."

"Huh." He hummed. "So, you've probably have quite a lot of dealing with the Mafia over the years?"

"I've had my moments." Jim agreed, unfazed by the deceptively tentative method of questioning being employed on him.

"I bet." He grinned malevolently. "Now, I understand that you are particularly close to Sara Sidle, is that correct?"

"Yes." Brass agreed, involuntarily stiffening.

"So, when she went missing, it must have distressed you greatly. Great enough to take out your anger on the suspect?"

Jim choked out a bitter laugh, his piercing eyes glancing over the line of mobsters.

"Oh, if I'd done that he wouldn't be here to be on trial."

The lawyer blinked, surprised by the forthright response; but he quickly shook it off.

"Well, I imagine finding out about Miss Sidle's difficult upbringing upset you somewhat. So, when you discovered that her own grandfather could be involved you, and the rest of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, decided to concoct these allegations of a murder conspiracy from_ 1982_?"

Jim Brass had been in court enough times to know how this game was played. Truth be told, he could deal with lawyers while standing on his head. But this trial was not any other case. This was Sara's case; and for reasons unknown to him, he seemed totally unable to hold his temper in check when it came to talking about the brunette and her past life.

Licking his lips, he sat forward and determinedly held onto Angelo's steely gaze.

"Your client is a cold-blooded killer. He murdered his son-in-law and let his sick daughter take the rap." The detective spat bitterly. "If I had it my way, he _wouldn't_ be on trial. He would be one of those skeletons in the desert."


	39. September 2nd 2004

**September 2****nd****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Catherine Willows' Testimony**

"Now, tell us Mrs Willows..."

"Miss." She interrupted, practically feeling the crowd's opinion of her drop at the instinctive correction. The lawyer flashed a sickeningly smarmy grin and her heart sank with the realisation that she had just walked right into his trap.

"My apologies, _Miss_ Willows." He amended pointedly. "Can you tell us how you reacted to the discovery that your colleague, Miss Sidle, was missing?"

Catherine felt herself flush at the question, her gaze instinctively flashing to Grissom's face.

"What ... what do you mean?"

The lawyer frowned, puzzled by her flustered reaction. Gil, too, seemed perplexed by the obvious panic playing across her expression.

"Well, how did you and the rest of your colleagues respond to that news? What were your first steps?"

"Oh." She cleared her throat, straightening up in an attempt to compose her uncharacteristic nerves. "Well, we searched her apartment and we checked all of her recent cases, looking for anyone who might have held a grudge against her. And when we still came up blank, we tried to contact her family."

"And I believe that was your idea, was it not?"

"My idea?" She queried. It might well have been, but she honestly couldn't remember – those first frantic hours had gone by in a blur. The lawyer checked his notes, searching for a particular section of highlighted text.

"I understand that you recounted a phone call that you had taken a few weeks prior to Miss Sidle's disappearance?"

Cath's face fell as she realised what he was talking about and she shifted uncomfortably.

"Yes." She agreed, attempting to maintain her calm and avoid Sara's searching gaze at all cost. "I had answered a phone call from her brother a few weeks earlier, which led me to believe she was in some financial trouble. We were concerned that that might have something to do with her disappearance, so we contacted her brothers."

"I see." He nodded. "And that led you to investigating her family history and her father's death?"

"Yes. We discovered that she was paying for her mother's long-term care and she had gotten in touch with her brothers to ask for help. She wanted to use the trust fund that had been set up using money given to her parents by her grandfather, Angelo Valentino."

"I see." He echoed, pursing his lips. "And what bearing did this have on the investigation?"

"We initially thought that her grandfather might have come out of hiding to access the money. As it turns out, the money had nothing to do with it, although Sara _had_ been taken in an attempt to lure Angelo out of hiding."

The defence attorney nodded along with her explanation, tapping a pen against his chin in thought.

"Okay. Thank you." He hummed at last. "No further questions."

Catherine blinked, surprised. After the slating Greg and Brass had taken, she was expecting something a little more thorough than that.

"Okay." She mumbled, standing up on still-shaking legs to leave the box; when suddenly the lanky man spun back around to face her again.

"Oh, actually I do have one further question." His thin lips spread into that sickly grin once again and she felt her stomach knot with an almost psychic anticipation. "Do you answer all of your colleagues' private phone calls, or only the ones who you have romantic feelings for?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 2<strong>**nd****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse**

"If it's so much harder for suspects to win preliminary hearings than trials, why are we losing already?"

Greg's question was mumbled towards the floor as he slumped forward in an uncomfortable plastic chair, his head clasped in his hands.

"Because they have good lawyers." Grissom had elected not to sit down and seemed to be regretting it now as he paced restlessly in the narrow hallway.

"And if we lose, then what?" Greg scowled. "They just walk away scot-free?"

"Pretty much." Warrick griped, sinking into the seat beside him and patting him on the shoulder in a rare act of comfort towards the young lab tech. "So much for making them pay."

As if echoing his depressed sigh, the courtroom doors swept open with a heavy whoosh. Catherine looked effortlessly graceful in her pressed grey suit as she sashayed through the oak-framed entrance, but her drawn features told a very different tale.

"Okay." She held out her hands after the muted scrutiny became too much for her. "Somebody start. I know you all have _something_ to say to me."

Conversely to his usual reservation, Grissom was the first to speak up; but his harsh tone was not what she expected from the normally placid scientist.

"Contrary to your popular belief," he spat callously, "everything isn't about you, Catherine."

"I know." She opened and closed her mouth in surprise, shooting a puzzled look in Jim's direction for some clarification about his aberrant bad temper. The boys, too, recoiled in surprise, but wisely decided to keep quiet.

"So," Nick exhaled at last. "What's the plan?"

"We let the evidence speak for itself. There's nothing much more we can do."

"There has to be." Warrick shifted, not wanting to piss off the irate supervisor further, but not willing to sit back and watch the case fall apart either. "This isn't just about evidence. We can't let them get away with what they've done to Sara."

"Hey," Nick glanced around hurriedly. "Where is Sara?"

"She's talking to the DA with her brothers." Cath nodded in the direction of the courtroom. The fact that she was so clued in to Sara's movements, or the fact that she was so willing to broadcast it, drew a frustrated eye-roll from Grissom; something which immediately raised Catherine's heckles.

However, just as Brass was preparing to step in and intervene in the brewing argument, Greg's head shot up from his hands.

"There might still be something we could do." He tapped his foot on the floor anxiously, his youthful brow furrowed in deep thought.

"What?" Warrick asked, eager for any suggestion however far-fetched it was. Greg pushed himself out of the chair and set off at a quick walk towards the main entrance, checking his watch as he went.

"Greg!" Nick hollered after his rapidly departing figure. "Aren't you going to tell us?"

The man stopped before he vanished around the corner and flashed them a teasing little smile.

"I'll tell you when I know if it'll work."

As he disappeared from sight, the previous tension quickly returned and Catherine dropped her eyes to the floor to avoid meeting Gil's cold stare.

"Well," Jim coughed softly, sidling between them. "Greg's right about one thing – we're not going to help Sara by standing around here bickering over her like school kids. So, Gil, put the pout away and Catherine, get rid of the kicked-puppy-look. There's a girl in there who needs her family to be on side right now –_ all_ of her family."

Behind them, Nick and Warrick shared a furtive smile at the detective's easy admonishment of the two bosses. He may have been usurped as the Night Shift Supervisor, but he was still the father of the group.

Which was what they needed more than anything right now; and no-one more so than the next person to take that long walk to the witness box.

* * *

><p><strong>September 2<strong>**nd****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Sara Sidle's Testimony**

"Miss Sidle, let me first express my deepest sympathy for what you went through."

"Thank you." She accepted begrudgingly through gritted teeth. Even across the vast courtroom, she could feel Catherine's eyes on her, but she was determined not to meet them. If she looked at the woman now, she was terrified that her damaged walls would collapse and all of her neatly packed emotions would just come tumbling out.

"Now, when you were being held by the defendants Raymond Acerbi and Roberto Masserio Junior, did they do anything that led you to believe they meant you harm?"

"Aside from chaining me to a wall and starving me for a week?" She enquired bluntly, to an almost inaudible snigger from the audience. The lawyer twitched.

"Yes, aside from that." He continued, dismayed by this 'victim's' embittered response, but rolling with it all the same. "Did they say anything that made you think they would hurt you?"

"No." She conceded, her gaze drifting briefly over her captors. Bobby was staring back at her through stone-cold orbs, his expression blank; but Raymond could not meet her eye. "No, they never said anything threatening to me."

"When you first woke up in hospital, you initially couldn't recall exactly what had happened, correct?"

"It was foggy." She agreed. "I had been on some pretty strong pain medication."

"Quite. Now, when you were placed into the coffin – excuse me if this upsets you, but we need to get the facts right – do you recall who was responsible for it?"

"I know who was responsible." Almost beyond her control, she found herself staring at Raymond's bowed head again.

"But did you actually _see_ them placing you into the coffin and cutting your throat?"

She paused, her teeth sinking into her lower lip.

"No." She admitted quietly. "I was unconscious."

"Your Honour," the DA groaned exasperatedly. "Is there really a need to go over these distressing details? We have a signed confession from Mr Masserio implicating Mr Acerbi in the attempted murder of Miss Sidle. Rehashing the event is a cruel and pointless exercise."

"I agree." The judge barked. "Mr Moazezi. Keep the unnecessary questions to a minimum, I'm sure we'd all like to get home sometime today."

"You're right, I'm sorry." He lied. "Miss Sidle, how old were you when your father died?"

Sara resisted the urge to laugh at the irony of leaving one traumatic subject just to discuss another.

"I was nine."

"And what do you remember about that evening?"

"Very little." She admitted, seeking out her brothers in the audience. "I remember my brother Dylan leaving after an argument with our parents. Then there was a lot of noise-"

"What sort of noise?"

"Shouting." She shrugged. "Arguing. Footsteps – it sounded like people were running through the house."

"How many people?" He pushed, earning him a derisive look.

"I don't know. I stayed in my bedroom and tried to ignore it until it went away."

"And when it did go away?"

She swallowed around a lump which had suddenly appeared in her throat.

"I came out of my room and went to my parents' bedroom. My father ... he was on the bed, covered in blood. My mother was on the floor, crying."

"That must have been a very upsetting sight." He said without a touch of sympathy. "What did you do next?"

"I didn't do anything." She closed her eyes for a second, trying to hide the tears that were trying so hard to fall. When she opened them again, she could have sworn for just a second that she was still in that bedroom, staring at her father's cold, lifeless corpse hanging pitifully off the edge of the bed. "Dylan came in. He took me back to my bedroom and closed the door, told me to stay there until someone came for me."

"Did he come back?"

"No." Sara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, staring down at her hands, still trembling despite being pinned between her knees. "No, the next time my door opened it was a police officer."

"Miss Sidle," Moazezi tipped his head back, towards the ceiling. "These noises – were they unusual?"

"No." She admitted sadly. "There was always a lot of arguing. That's why I stayed in my room until it went quiet."

"Okay." He beamed. "Thank you for your testimony, Miss Sidle; I'm sure it can't have been easy for you. Your honour, I have no further questions at this time."

"Good." The judge checked his watch for the tenth time since they had returned into the courtroom. "In that case, I believe we can call it a day. We'll resume here tomorrow at 9am."

As the spectators began to file nosily out of the room, Sara stepped gingerly down from the stand. Catherine was already coming to meet her, her arms outstretched; but she was easily sidestepped as Sara made her way alone towards the benches.

"Hey girl," Warrick greeted warmly, dragging her into his body and pressing a firm kiss to her hair. "You did good."

She murmured something indistinguishable against his shoulder, nestling against his embrace.

"Yeah, you did real good Sara." Brass added proudly. "We're so proud of you."

Behind them, Catherine watched the scene playing out with a desolate expression.

"Come on honey." She whispered when nobody moved, outstretching a tentative hand to brush her girlfriend's shuddering back. "Let's go home."

* * *

><p><strong>September 2<strong>**nd****, 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House**

It was not how either of them anticipated their first time would be.

It wasn't about love, or passion, or even sex. It was about raw, animalistic emotion. All the pent up feelings that had been building for the last four years, spilling over into a fountain of whispered affections and desperate pleas murmured against hot, sweat-drenched skin.

Sara had barely even looked at her since leaving the courthouse; and even now she refused, despite Catherine's best efforts to catch the briefest glimpse of her midnight black pupils in the darkness.

She understood that Sara was upset by today's events, and she could even understand the brunette's desperate need to not talk about it. But her cool rejection at the courthouse had left a sting on Catherine's heart that even their frantic love-making was unable to sooth.

And when it was over, the void between them remained impenetrable; as Sara got out of the bed and walked into the bathroom without a single word. Her broken figure barely seemed to cast a shadow as it cut silently across the dim room; leaving Catherine confused, alone and irrevocably cold.


	40. September 3rd 2004

**September 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse**

The mood was sombre as the team filed into the courtroom the next morning, with Grissom and Catherine leading the way in a mute continuation of their earlier spat.

A few feet behind, Warrick sidestepped towards Nick and leant close to the Texan's ear.

"Any word from Greg?"

"No, nothing! Nick hissed back, trying to contain his bafflement. "Hodges said he ran into the lab, spent an hour on the phone and then took off again without a word to anyone."

"Who was he on the phone to?"

"He doesn't know!"

"Damn." Warrick groaned, wiping a hand across his face. "The one thing Hodges is good for and he craps out on us!"

They had reached the front bench and slipped into their chosen seats for the third and final day of the pre-trial hearing. Today was the day the judge would make his decision about whether or not to send some, or all, of the defendants to a full trial.

Today was judgement day.

Right on cue, Judge Brenner appeared in all his glory, striding towards his throne. An expectant silence fell across the room, awaiting the first stern intonations of his gravelly voice.

"Counsel," he gestured to the DA to call their witness. "I'm sure we'd all like to get home before midnight, so let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

Jeremy Sinclair rose and nodded in gratitude. He cleared his throat, turning to address the row of increasingly bored-looking defendants.

"The Prosecution calls Sam Braun to the stand."

* * *

><p><strong>September 3rd, 2004 - - McCarran Airport, Las Vegas<strong>

Greg checked his watch impatiently, his foot beginning to twitch where it was propped against the chair leg.

The sudden crackling undertone of an intercom message startled him, echoing off the high ceiling in an unintelligible ramble of gate numbers and safety messages.

Finally, the doors in front of him slithered open and a chattering rabble of people began filing into the waiting area, clutching boarding passes and searching frantically for their loved ones.

Greg was on his feet in a flash, standing on his tip-toes in a desperate attempt to seek out a familiar face in the crowd.

With only six hours of pre-trial left, he was cutting it very close.

* * *

><p><strong>September 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Sam Braun's Testimony<strong>

"Mr Braun, can you please explain to us how you know the defendant Mr Raymond Acerbi?"

Sam shuffled, struggling to find a comfortable position in the over-stuffed seat. His gaze, however, didn't shift from the identical blue eyes staring unwaveringly back at his own.

"Raymond's father and I knew each other a long time ago. In 1957 he approached myself, Nino Carmine and Angelo Valentino to overthrow Tony Accardo and take control of his Casino businesses in Las Vegas."

"And what did you decide to do?"

"We wanted to set him up for a big fall, take him down a peg or two." His tongue darted out to lick his dry lips. "But Nino ... Nino took things into his own hands – he killed Joey."

Sinclair tapped a pen against his pursed lips.

"And you had nothing to do with that?"

"No." Sam's gaze remained locked onto Catherine's as he enunciated each word slowly and precisely. "No, I didn't."

"Okay." The lawyer nodded. "So, tell me about Raymond. How do you know him?"

"Raymond," Sam laughed bitterly. "Raymond tried to blackmail me."

"So, you tried to kill him?"

"I tried to _reason_ with him." Sam countered, gesturing towards a sullen-looking young man sitting in amongst the aging defendants. "Except he didn't turn up. Instead, he sent some lackey to do his bidding."

"Ah, Mr Masserio Junior." The lawyer beamed. "And you pulled a gun on young Roberto."

"He pulled one on me first." Sam alleged, although judging by Catherine's dismissive eye-roll, she either didn't believe him or she didn't think it was a valid excuse.

"Mr Braun, you were aware that a CSI was missing, isn't that correct?" Sinclair shifted topic slightly. "I understand that your daughter informed you of that several days prior to the incident with Mr Masserio?"

"Yes, Catherine told me her friend was missing."

_Friend_. That word seemed so insufficient now.

"And yet, when you received the correspondence from your 'blackmailer', you elected not to tell the police?"

"I was concerned for my safety, and my daughter's."

"How so?"

Sam shifted, a frown creasing his weathered brow.

"Raymond kidnapped that CSI in retaliation for her grandfather's part in Joey's death. How did I know that he wouldn't do the same thing to my daughter if I didn't comply?"

"But your daughter knew about the potential threat." Sinclair pointed out. "She was already taking precautions, protecting herself. So, really, you were only looking out for yourself?"

Sam opened his mouth, but something about the way Catherine's gaze fell into her lap stopped him from offering any protestation. The brewing anger was gone from her rigid stance, replaced by something much more hurtful.

Disappointment.

"So you risked the life of a CSI – a friend of your daughter's-" the DA continued sternly. "-to ensure your own safety?"

"Yes, I suppose I did." He conceded with a half-hearted shrug. "But honestly, what would you have done in my place?"

* * *

><p><strong>September 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse<strong>

Once outside the courtroom, Sara made a beeline for the front entrance. She had been fidgeting for the last twenty minutes, dying for some fresh air and as soon as the judge called a recess she had been on her feet before either of her brothers could stop her.

However, Catherine was faster and caught up before she could disappear into the crowd.

"Hey," she breathed. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, okay." Sara nodded; although her anxious twitching and the way she continued to glance around suspiciously suggested that she would still prefer to be outside in an open space right now. Cath gripped her wrist and tugged her towards a quiet side of the corridor, ignoring the undisguised stares they were receiving from the rest of the team.

"We never had a chance to talk about what happened last night." She began tentatively, maintaining her grip on Sara's wrist.

"Okay." The brunette shrugged. "What about it?"

"Well, it was kind of rushed." Cath scowled, suddenly feeling her cheeks heat up at the prospect of having this discussion in public. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay?"

"I'm fine."

Catherine was used to Sara being distant and cagey with her – hell, it was all she'd known for four years. But she thought they had turned a corner in the recent weeks. Certainly, last night had been a new development in their relationship; even if it had been far from the romantic tryst she'd envisioned it would be.

But now, it was as if they'd turned back the clock to Sara's first few weeks in Vegas. She was withdrawn, distant – a stranger.

"Sara," she swallowed hard, trying to keep her emotions in check. "Please, will you talk to me? You haven't said a word since last night..."

For the first time, Sara met her eyes and allowed Catherine to glimpse the glazed, stony orbs that she hadn't seen in so long.

"I'm fine, Catherine." She repeated coldly. "Can we leave it, please?"

Even if Cath knew what to say in response to the almost-pleaded question, there was no time, as Sara was already fading instantly into the mass of spectators gathered in the hall. Catherine could feel Grissom watching from afar, but he turned away when she met his gaze; leaving her standing alone - much like last night - with only her own sadness and confusion for company.

* * *

><p>"Alright, I believe that we're nearly done." Judge Brenner practically sighed into the palm propping his head up on the table. The convoluted nature of this side-show trial had taken its toll on the older judge – he could only hope that he wouldn't be called to sit in on the real thing. "Counsel, would you like to call your final witness."<p>

The heavy door opened, drawing all eyes to the back of the courtroom.

"Oh, it's about time!" Nick hissed, as Greg ducked his head bashfully and strode quickly to the front. But he didn't join his team in the benches; instead stalking past them towards the DA's table, where he whispered something frantically in the lawyer's ear.

"Counsel?" The judge pressed in a testy tone.

"I'm sorry, your honour." The DA stood up, his attention still fixed on Greg's urgent expression. "I know this is highly unusual, but there's one more witness we'd like to call before Mr Valentino."

In the seat behind, Catherine started at the feeling of Grissom's breath against her ear.

"What is he thinking?"

"I don't know." She shrugged back, turning towards the door in time to see the mystery witness enter.

She had never seen the woman before, but she didn't need to hear the DA's announcement to recognise that face.

"I would like to call a new witness, Laura Sidle, to the stand."


	41. September 3rd 2004 (cont)

**September 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Laura Sidle's Testimony**

Whether it was the horror of being back inside a courtroom after so many years, or simply a mirror image of the spectators' shock, Laura remained wide-eyed and startled as the DA settled her into the witness box and swore her in.

Sara, too, appeared to be struggling to absorb this new development. She had barely even registered Catherine turning around to steal a glance at her face and check she was okay; her frightened, childlike gaze remained fixed on her mother's fidgeting figure on the stand.

Facing forward again, Cath leant closer to Greg. He had finally managed to get his breath back after deflating into the seat next to her and was watching with baited breath to see if his gamble paid off.

"What were you thinking?" She hissed in his ear.

"I'm trying to save Sara the heartache of going through a trial." He whispered back, gesturing towards Angelo sitting in the dock. If Sara had looked shocked to see her mother walk in, _he_ had been downright horrified to see his daughter preparing to testify against him.

For the first time since this circus of a trial began, he actually looked scared.

"Ms Sidle." The DA began softly. "I understand that these are very difficult circumstances for you and I appreciate you coming to help us."

"It's okay." She sniffed, seeking out the rapidly-paling faces of her children in the audience and seeming to relax a little. "I want to help."

"Good." Mr Sinclair cleared his throat. He had had no warning prior to Greg's timely arrival, so he was going to have to think on his feet here and roll with the punches. "Can you please tell us what happened the night your husband died?"

"Oh God." Sara practically whimpered, sinking against Seth's shoulder. He shot his sister a concerned look, sliding an arm around her slender waist and tugging her into his body.

"My ... husband." Laura repeated in a weak voice. "Max was murdered ... I, I murdered him."

"Laura, I understand that this is difficult," Sinclair cut in firmly. "But I need you to tell me in detail what happened. Start from earlier in the day, if that's easier. What did you do that morning?"

She knew this. She had been replaying this day over and over in her mind for the last twenty-two years. What she could remember of it, at least.

"It was just a normal Saturday morning. Max had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, so the children were playing outside – I didn't want them to wake him. Dylan had been gone most of the night, but he'd come back for breakfast." An almost wistful smile played out across her face, her eyes glazing over for a moment as fleeting as the happy family serenity she was describing. "It was nice. Peaceful."

"What about later in the day, when Max got up?"

"Max and I got into an argument about Seth." Her gaze flicked briefly towards her younger son, before quickly darting away again. "He wanted to be in the school play and Max didn't want that. He thought I was wrong for encouraging it."

"So, you were fighting?"

"We ... he threatened me with a knife. The children were in the room – he went to hit one of them and then Dylan came in and he and Max got into a fight. Max broke Dylan's jaw."

"Your eldest son, Dylan?" The DA clarified, noting with intrigue how she only referred to the younger Sidle siblings as 'the children'. "How old was he at the time?"

"Seventeen. We took him to hospital, but when we got back another fight started. Dylan left that night ... he said he wasn't coming back."

Even after all this time, the pain in her voice was palpable and Dylan's breath hitched at the realisation that he had put it there.

"What happened after that?"

"Max was so angry, he started drinking hard. He ... he hit my daughter, screamed at my son. Then he hit me. Eventually, he went to our room and passed out."

As she spoke, she was scanning the line of suspects; each and every one of them listening intently to her testimony. Finally, she settled on one in particular and her psychological presence in the room faltered.

"Ms Sidle?" The DA pressed uncertainly, looking to Greg for some kind of explanation.

"Mi padre." She mumbled absently to herself. "I spoke to my father that day – he phoned that morning and we got into an argument."

"About what?"

The whole room was practically leaning in now, captivated by the story that had remained untold for over two decades.

"He had leant us some money – a loan, to keep the business afloat. He told me that Max was a waste of space and I should take the children and leave him. He said that if I didn't, he would take them himself."

"He threatened to take them away from you?" Sinclair quirked an eyebrow. "That must have made you angry?"

"No, not angry." She sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she had produced from inside her sleeve. "Frightened. I was terrified that I would lose them. They were all I had."

"And then when Dylan left, you must have been even more scared. So, what did you do when Max passed out after their fight?"

Catherine heard Greg suck in a lungful of air, anticipating the fallout that might be to come. Whatever Laura said next could make or break the case – and depending which way it went, he'd either be a hero or he'd be the guy who put his best friend through hell for nothing.

"I ... I don't know." Laura whimpered.

"Ms Sidle, I know it's very difficult, but I need you to try and remember. When Max went into the bedroom, where did you go?"

Catherine heard a scuffle behind her and turned to see Seth stand up. He kept one hand on Sara's shoulder, barely keeping her together, but his blue eyes were fixed on his mother's. Laura saw him too and the briefest of smiles danced across her face, showing the court a glimpse of the pretty woman she could have been if fate hadn't so cruelly ravaged her youthful looks.  
>She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a split second, and when she spoke again her voice was suddenly level and calm.<p>

"Max went into the bedroom. The children were in their own rooms ... Seth was angry and Sara had been upset that Dylan was leaving."

* * *

><p><strong>December 4<strong>**th****, 1982 - - Sidle's B&B, Tomales Bay, California**

She closed the door, leaning her back heavily against it. She could still hear the faint sound of Sara's cries through the thin wall, but the child's tears had subsided enough that she felt safe leaving her to calm down alone for now.

Her biggest concern had been that Max would hear and turn his anger against her again. The girl was justifiably distressed – she relied on her big brother for support and protection when Laura and Max were fighting; without him, she was going to be at her father's mercy.

Who was she kidding? Without Dylan around, they were all at his mercy.

Thankfully, for the time being at least, Max was spark out in the bedroom; collapsed in a drunken stupor atop the unwashed bed sheets.

Savouring the sacred few minutes of tranquillity, Laura took her coffee and slipped out of the front door, planting herself on the top step. The sea was unsettlingly still tonight, barely a wave rippling against the satin sand, the rocks untouched by its flexed hand.

She had always liked to listen to the sea; she enjoyed the sounds of nature's power, feral and uninhibited by both man and earth. Max, too, used to enjoy such simple pleasures – it was partly what had attracted her to him. However, unlike her charmed upbringing, he had had to fight for everything in life and that constant battle had left him bitter and angry with the world.

He drank to forget. She had to settle for moments like this to keep the memories at bay.

She was so utterly absorbed, staring at the deepest-black water shimmering beneath an almost-full moon, that the sound of car doors slamming startled her into spilling her coffee. She hadn't even heard the engine.

It was very late for customers, but she was not going to turn them away. They needed the money, after all.

"Hello." She stood up, presenting the friendliest smile she could given today's tiring events. "Do you need a room?"

She knew that they were there, she could hear their footsteps ascending the wooden stairs; but in their dark suits, the only thing she could see was two pairs of glowing eyes set into stern, blank faces.

Neither uttered a word as they brushed past her into the little house.

"Um, excuse me ... the reception area's ... excuse me?" She trailed after them, stumbling over her own feet as her body struggled to catch up with the events taking place.

Almost as if they'd been here before, they had already cleared the lounge and kitchen, bypassed the children's rooms and were standing in the threshold of the master bedroom, their hulking bodies framed by a deep orange glow emanating from a lone lamp by the bed.

"You can't go in there!" She called, jogging after them. "You shouldn't be here, you need to leave!"

She was moving so fast that she almost ran into the back of one, when she suddenly veered left in shock at the same time he swiftly produced a knife from inside his jacket and stepped purposefully towards the bed.

"No!" She shrieked helplessly. "No, don't!"

Max barely even awoke as the blade pierced his heart in the first blow. His body jolted violently, a strangled gurgling surging from the bottom of his throat as the suited stranger brought the knife down again and again into his already dead body.

Laura continued to scream, though the sound barely registered in her own ears. The last thing she could remember was the feeling of hot, metallic blood splashing against her ice-cold skin as she sank pitifully onto the floor in a mess of desperate, wordless pleas.

* * *

><p><strong>September 3rd, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Angelo Valentino's Testimony<strong>

"We know you spent several years 'underground', as it were, Mr Valentino. So, why did you come back to Las Vegas?"

Angelo sat closer to the microphone, mulling over the question.

"For guys like me, Las Vegas washes away our sins."

Brass leant close to Gil, lowering his voice.

"Washes them away, or buries them in the desert?" He asked rhetorically.

Behind them, the boys were glowering furiously at Angelo. Sara, still protectively pinned between her brothers, hadn't glanced up from her lap since a near-hysterical Laura was escorted from the room after breaking down at the end of her horror story.

She had given them everything they'd hoped she would. But was it enough?

"Guys like you?" Mr Sinclair pressed. "What exactly does that mean?"

Angelo's thin mouth separated in a sickly grin, revealing a crooked row of smoke-stained teeth.

"There are a lot of holes in that desert. And a lot of problems are buried in those holes." He explained. "Vegas was made by people like me, _for_ people like me. People like us."

The rest of the defendants did not appear thrilled with the likeness as he gestured to them sitting in front of the judge.

"So, all those bodies that were dug up in the desert – you know something about them?"

Angelo laughed, throwing his head back.

"Give me some names." He countered. "And I could tell you a hundred stories. No names ... well, then I guess you have no way to know who's responsible."

"Alright, let's move on." Sinclair coughed, refusing to get drawn into playing games with this man.

Surprisingly, Angelo sobered up quickly.

"There are a lot of secrets buried with those bones." He pointed out darkly. "And some of them were better off buried."

The DA had been understandably sceptical when Greg Sanders came to him with a story of family turmoil and Mafia hit men. But now, feeling that cold empty stare as deep down as his own skeleton, there was no doubt in his mind that this man was guilty of everything he'd been accused of and more.

"Mr Valentino, may I remind you that you're in a court of law. If you have something to say, there's no need to be cryptic."

Angelo licked his dry lips, turning them up into a sneer.

"Then why don't you ask me what you really want to know?"

"Okay." Sinclair pursed his lips. "Did you order Max Sidle's murder?"

"Yes."

There was a sudden buzz of activity around the room as the local and national media trolls practically jumped up with excitement.

"You did?" The DA repeated, not believing that it could possibly be that easy.

"Yes, I hired two men to walk into that house and kill my son-in-law. But not because of money." He scowled, his strong accent taking precedent as a deep, seething anger tightened its hold on him; twisting his face into a mask of hatred. "I had Max killed because he was abusing my daughter, my grandchildren."

"You were aware of the abuse taking place in their home?"

"Of course I was aware." He spat. "My daughter doesn't speak to me for week;, and when she finally does, she can barely talk because he hit her so hard the night before. I met with her a few times before Max died, she begged me to lend him some money. He was too stubborn to ask for it himself, too proud. She had bruises on her arms where he had beaten her. After that, she stopped answering my calls. I gave him the money, because I hoped it might stop the violence."

"And when it didn't, then what did you do?" The DA pushed. He had never expected to get a confession – all his pre-planned questions were useless to him now, so all he could do was extract as much information as he could and let Angelo sign his own life sentence.

"I went to the children's schools, to try and talk to them. I saw them coming out of the building – they had bruises too, you could see them clear as day." He trailed off, his weary gaze seeking out the three wide-eyed figures hunched together like kittens in a cardboard box, abandoned by the side of the road. Twenty years later, you could be forgiven for still seeing three frightened children waiting to see their mother sent down for a crime she hadn't committed.

Angelo squeezed his eyes closed, a pained look crossing his features. But when he opened them again, there was still no remorse.

"I wanted him to suffer. That's why I told them to use a knife, not a gun. I wanted him to feel the agony of his very last breath leaving his body."

He had been gradually sinking down in his seat, the weight of his crime taking its toll at last. But now he sat upright, looking to the back of the court where an army of journalists were already writing the headlines with morbid glee.

"I killed Max," he explained, "because he deserved to die."


	42. September 3rd 2004 (contx2)

**I am anticipating two, maybe three more chapters :) After that, there will be a bit of a break before I post my next story while I get a head start on it, but I've already started planning for it! **

* * *

><p><strong>September 3<strong>**rd****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Courthouse, Parking Lot**

She was visibly shaking with the sudden cold spell, but she barely even noticed. Her gaze was lost somewhere in the crowd of people filing down the steps; though she may as well have been staring at a wall for all that she was actually seeing.

Mentally, she was still inside the courtroom; although it wasn't this courtroom. It was the courthouse in Modesto, where she had sat almost a lifetime ago watching her mother get sent down for murder. Today, she saw that same woman get a very public clearing for the same heinous crime.

So why did it feel like someone had thrust a spear through her chest?

"Hey."

She turned her head slightly, absently aware of someone sitting down beside her.

"Hey." She echoed hoarsely.

Dylan released a heavy sigh, tilting his head towards the grey sky. Somewhere over the desert a low roar of thunder was creeping furtively closer.

"Well, that was a revelation."

"Yeah." She agreed softly. "Do we know where mom went?"

For a minute, he had to wonder whether she was meant physically or on a psychological level.

"Someone from the care home has taken her to the hospital. She's going to stay there tonight, before they take her back to California tomorrow."

Sara nodded, leaning imperceptibly against his shoulder.

"I was thinking about that ... I'm not sure I want her to go back to California."

"Okay." Dylan frowned, concern for his baby sister starting to settle in the pit of his stomach the longer she continued to stare detachedly into space. "Whatever you want, Sar."

She nodded again, satisfied with the response. Dyl continued to watch her out of the corner of his eye, trying to see a glimpse of the frightened little girl he had left behind in that haunted house all those years ago. But she was long gone, usurped by a world-weary heart hidden behind a mask of indifference that could be slipped into place whenever necessary.

Sara had built a defence system around herself. Granted, it had acquired a few dents in these last few months; but she was still standing and whatever it was inside her that was so strong, it had not stemmed from that scared child she had once been. It was something she had constructed all by herself.

"I was in the house." She murmured in bemusement, snapping him back from his internal scrutiny of her psyche.

"What?"

"The night dad ... the night dad died. I was in the house."

"Hey." Dylan swiftly held up a hand to silence her. "Don't even go there, kid. You couldn't possibly know what happened – that's exactly how they planned it."

"You knew." She pointed out, turning her tear-stained face up to his.

"Yeah." He shifted, sliding a tentative arm around her back. "And I was a coward about it. Better to be oblivious than weak, don't you think?"

From her expression, she was not convinced by that logic; but she didn't have a better counter argument, so she merely resumed her staring ahead at the diminishing masses still pooled outside the courthouse doors.

Across the parking lot, Catherine watched as Seth ambled towards his family and planted himself on the low wall on Sara's other side. She couldn't hear what was being said, but her heart still tightened as the second brother wrapped both arms around her waist and she tipped her head against his shoulder.

She looked tiny in their arms, as she probably had done the last time they were all together like this.

"Man, what a day." Warrick groaned, his green eyes also glued to the moping siblings. "I bet they've got some talking to do."

"Yeah." She agreed quietly. It was stupid, of course, but she couldn't help feeling left out right now. She had supported Sara throughout her entire ordeal, and now she daren't even approach her in case she was intruding on something deeply personal.

How sad was that?

Fortunately, her attention quickly diverted elsewhere and she jogged across the parking lot before the object of her focus could disappear into the sanctity of his waiting limo.

Sam saw her too and sidestepped a persistent journalist to meet her half way.

"Muggs."

Catherine had tried in recent years to recall where that nickname had come from, but she just couldn't remember. For as far as her memory stretched, Sam had always greeted her with the same affectionate moniker in his familiar gravelly tone; and it had always caused the tiniest flutter of warmth to swell inside her.

Until today.

"Why?" It was an all-encompassing question, really. Why had he lied? Why was he so damn self-centred that even his own daughter paled in comparison to his personal security?

Why, after everything she now knew about Sam, did this still hurt her so much?

* * *

><p><strong>September 3<strong>**rd****, 2004 - -Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room**

"Hey, there he is!" Archie led the procession of lab techs, striding into the room with arms outstretched. "The hero!"

Greg rolled his eyes skyward, inhaling a frustrated breath. But he turned, wearing the closest thing to a smile as he could muster.

"I take it you heard the news?"

"That Raymond and the rest of his gang of mobsters are getting a full trial; while Angelo gets minimum fifteen years for murder?" Hodges beamed. "You played a blinder, G!"

Greg scrunched his nose up at the use of an informal nickname by the prissy technician.

"Thanks, I guess." He shrugged unenthusiastically.

"I thought you'd be thrilled." Mandy placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "You made the case! You exonerated Laura Sidle for Max's murder and brought the real killers to justice!"

"Yeah, although I suppose you can't really blame Angelo." Hodges chipped in; helping himself to Greg's freshly made coffee and taking a long, thoughtful sip. "I mean, he was only trying to protect his family."

"Maybe." Greg scowled. "But he still left his mentally ill daughter to take the fall and let his grandkids go into care. I'd hardly call that 'protecting' them."

"Well, either way, we still won." Archie trilled brightly.

"No." Greg dropped onto a stool and turned away from their furrowed stares to glower morosely through the glass walls into the layout room, where crime scene pictures of Sara's ramshackle prison remained pinned to the notice board. "Nobody wins here, not really."

* * *

><p><strong>September 4<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Locker Room**

The sounds of joyful celebration felt a million miles away here, sat in the darkness staring dejectedly at the cold steel door of her locker.

In terms of justice, it was certainly a positive result. Raymond and Bobby were getting a full trial for their hand in the dead bodies littering the desert. Angelo was finally getting his comeuppance for murdering Max. Laura had received an official pardon and a frank apology from the judge.

And Sara was not going to have to sit through a trial into her father's murder ... again.

Yet Catherine did not feel like celebrating. A man was dead – sure, he had not been father of the year, and perhaps Angelo was right; perhaps Max deserved everything he got. But his children didn't. Dylan, Seth and Sara had had to live with the fallout of his death for twenty-two years.

For twenty-two years, they had been the children of a ghost and a murderess. Now, they had to find a way to rebuild their lives from scratch, as everything they once knew had changed irreparably.

The biggest question for Catherine remained whether or not she would be a part of that; and right now, she honestly didn't have the answer.

"I'm sorry."

She jumped, whirling around. Sara was hovering in the doorway, twisting her hands sheepishly in front of her body.

For an agonizingly long minute, they just stared.

Eventually, Catherine stood up and pretended to search for something in her locker – a pitiful ruse to give her time to think – before giving up and turning to face Sara; who continued to fidget anxiously just outside the room. She seemed equally uncertain of what to say.

"I saw you talking to Sam." She offered at last. "Is everything okay?"

"It's fine." Cath lied coolly, sliding her hands into her front pockets to prevent them from twitching.

Sara flinched at the callousness of her tone and Catherine softened her expression a little, realising how that must have sounded. If Sara wasn't willing to confide in her, she wasn't going to do so in the brunette; but that didn't mean she had to be unsympathetic to her plight.

"How's Laura doing?" She asked, attempting to ease the uncomfortable tension a little.

Sara nodded, releasing a shuddering breath.

"I phoned the carer a little while ago, she was asleep. They're going to call me in the morning." She swallowed hard, chewing on her lower lip. "Maybe you could come with me tomorrow, when I go to see her? If you want to, of course ... you don't have to..."

"Sara," Cath cut in, surprised by the probing question and the uncharacteristic bout of nerves from her colleague.

"You're right, I'm sorry." Sara continued to babble, sinking onto the bench and taking a minute to compose herself.

Catherine, too, sat down and waited for her to speak again.

"I know I've been difficult lately." Sara sniffled at last, using the corner of her sleeve to dab at her eyes. "I don't blame you for being angry."

"I'm not angry." The older woman blinked. "I'm ... confused. I just wanted to help you, but you won't let me."

"I know." Sara repeated. "I want that too, but..."

"But what?" Catherine pressed, continually flummoxed by this unexpected extension of trust and not quite willing to lose it yet. Sara glanced up, her defensive mask long gone; allowing every emotion to play out across her features.

"I can't hide anything from you." She admitted quietly. "I needed to be strong in court; I didn't want to break down. If I'd let my guard down before I went in there – even just to you – I wasn't sure I'd be able to get it back up in time. Pretty selfish, I know."

Catherine remained silent for a minute, absorbing this new open side of her friend. Finally, she started to laugh.

"Miss Sidle," She shook her head in amusement. "You are possibly the least selfish person I have ever met. I mean, just look at all the things you've sacrificed to take care of your mother."

"Doesn't make what I did to you any better." Sara pointed out, but again Cath refuted it.

"Today wasn't about me. This was for you and your brothers. You should make the most of it."

Sara smiled weakly in gratitude, extending a timid hand to brush Catherine's where it lay on the bench.

"I don't know how I would have gotten through this without you."

Catherine felt herself relax at the apprehensive touch, releasing more pent-up stress than even she knew she was holding in. She turned her hand over, intertwining their fingers.

"Is that offer to come with you tomorrow still open?"


	43. September 4th 2004

**September 4****th****, 2004 - -Desert Palms Hospital **

It was the first time Sara had set foot back in a hospital since being released and she was understandably on edge as they walked hand-in-hand down the wide corridor.

After enquiring with a desk clerk, they quickly located Laura's room, tucked away in a quieter corner of the ward. Outside her door there was a tall window overlooking the sprawling parking lot; and instead of going inside, Sara leant her forehead against the cold glass, taking a few steadying breaths. This was harder than she'd imagined it would be.

Catherine watched her mutely for a minute, before placing both hands on the brunette's slender hips.

"You ready?"

"Yeah." Sara exhaled, pushing herself away from the wall and attempting to paint an expression of calm and composure on her nervous features. "Yeah, of course."

She stepped out of Catherine's grasp and pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the tiny private room; where her anxiety was momentarily forgotten with the initial surprise at having two pairs of eyes turn to face her.

"Oh, hey." A puzzled smile graced her face as she approached the occupants, leaving Catherine lurking just behind her.

"Hey." Greg beamed back from his position perched on the edge of the bed, one arm stretched casually across the railing.

"Sara," Laura greeted, stretching out a pleading hand towards her daughter.

"Hi mom." Sara moved to her side, silently scrutinising the older woman. She was sitting upright with bright eyes, looking more alert than she had done in months. Whatever damage the first trial into Max's death had caused, this one appeared to have remedied a little. "How are you feeling?"

"Greg's been telling me about the case." She grinned, resting her free hand on the young man's arm. "We won?"

"Yeah." Sara smiled warmly, flicking her chocolate-brown gaze briefly towards Greg's proud grin. "Yeah, we won."

It was a simplistic way of looking at things, but it was as much as Laura needed to know. Max's real killers were finally getting their comeuppance and justice was going to be served for Joseph Acerbi, Nino Carmine and Sara, of course.

"Hey Cath," Greg greeted, noticing the woman loitering at the foot of the bed for the first time. Sara, too, glanced up and internally berated herself for forgetting about her girlfriend. Encouraging her closer, she slipped an arm around the older woman's waist.

"Mom, this is Catherine. She's ..." She trailed off, debating how to introduce her. To the best of her knowledge, Laura didn't know about her sexuality and she couldn't even begin to guess how her mother might take the news.

Fortunately, she wouldn't have to find out today, as Catherine sent her an understanding look and grinned at Laura.

"I work with Sara – and Greg." She explained.

"You were in court." Laura narrowed her eyes, trying to place the familiar face.

"Yes, I was." Catherine agreed. "I was working Sara's case."

Laura's lips spread into a smile and she nodded approvingly, before turning back to her daughter.

"Can I go home now?"

The bluntness with which the question was fired brought matching smiles to Cath's and Greg's lips. Max may have had a temper on him; but it was clear where Sara had inherited _her_ impatience from. But, as much fun as it would be to stay and watch the two Sidle women butt heads, this was a conversation that didn't require an audience.

"Listen," Greg hopped off the bed and snatched up his jacket. "I have to get back to the lab, but it was great to see you again."

"You'll come back?" Laura asked, pitiful hope springing to her voice.

"Sure." Greg promised eagerly, grazing Sara's shoulder affectionately with his own as he made to leave.

"I'll walk you out." Catherine shot Sara an encouraging smile. She was grateful for the brunette opening up to her like this, but she understood that the conversation they were about to have was personal and she didn't want to overstep her mark just yet. Things were still too tentative between the couple for her to risk that.

Sara waited until they were both out of earshot before turning back to her mother, who was staring at her with the knowing look that only a parent can wear.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say they left on cue." She commented, drawing a sheepish laugh from Sara as she claimed Greg's vacated spot on the bed.

"Well, there was something I wanted to talk about with you actually..."

* * *

><p>Outside the door, Greg turned to Catherine with his hands on his hips and sighed.<p>

"Alright, what's wrong?"

"What?" She tore her attention away from the little window in the door to frown at him.

"You and Sara – you were off with each other in court and now you barely said ten words to each other. What's wrong?"

Catherine laughed in surprise. The lab rat's doe-eyed ruse was clearly just that, as there was evidently a lot more going on beneath his boyish smile.

"Everything's fine." She assured him, turning back to peer into the room. It was difficult to read the situation through the tiny space afforded to her, but Laura's furrowed brow suggested she was listening intently to whatever Sara had to say.

"You sure?"

Greg continued to stare at her with innocent optimism, but there was grave concern dancing in his wide orbs.

"I love her." She sent him a lazy smile over her shoulder. "Everything else will come later."

* * *

><p><strong>September 4<strong>**th,**** 2004 - - Catherine Willows' House**

"Alright." Nancy slammed her mug down and crossed her arms sullenly. "Stop it. You're making me sick."

Catherine recoiled indignantly.

"What?" She demanded, insulted.

"You had sex last night."

Catherine's cheeks flushed – an unfamiliar sensation for the brash blonde – and she stuttered out a shy laugh.

"I'm sorry?"

"I can tell." Nancy narrowed her eyes, brandishing a finger at her. "And there's only one person who could have put that dozy smile on your face. You sicken me."

"Well, I'm sorry." Catherine blinked, pretending to be offended. "I didn't realise it was such an issue for you."

"It's not." Nancy frowned, realising how that must have sounded. She leant forward, pushing her mug aside. "I don't have a problem with you shacking up with a female colleague if that's what makes you happy, but there's no need for you to flaunt it."

"Hey, it's not my fault you're going through a dry spell." Cath shrugged nonchalantly, retiring her attention back to her magazine.

"It's not a dry spell." Nancy huffed. "It's just..."

When she clearly couldn't think of a decent response, Catherine smirked with satisfaction.

"You know there's nothing stopping you trying something new." She suggested helpfully. "I'm sure Sara has some single gay friends who'd be happy to oblige?"

At Nancy's disapproving scowl, a mischievous laugh bubbled out of Catherine.

"Oh come on, I'm only kidding." She teased. "Besides, you're probably too uptight for most of Sara's friends."

"It's not fair." The younger sibling continued to grouse. "I was happily married for eight years and it all ends in flames. You and Eddie were a car crash waiting to happen, you take every wrong turn going and somehow you still manage to land on your feet."

"What can I say?" Cath shrugged absently. "I'm just that good."

"It's not fair." Nancy repeated, lifting her coffee mug to her lips. However, she stopped before the nearly-cold liquid could touch her lips and her eyes narrowed to slits. "And I am _not_ uptight."

* * *

><p><strong>September 4<strong>**th,**** 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Break Room**

"So she's definitely coming to Vegas?" Nick asked, handing Sara the sugar bowl and a teaspoon. "Permanently?"

"Yeah, as soon as possible." She nodded, a relaxed expression gracing her features for the first time in what felt like an age. "Dyl and Seth are going to help me choose somewhere and get her settled in."

"That's fantastic." Warrick placed a hand on her waist, pulling her into his body. She didn't resist, sinking against his firm chest. "I take it they're going to be around a bit more often?"

"Yeah, I think so. And you are under strict instruction to visit regularly." She gestured to Greg with the handle of her spoon. "She specifically asked me to tell you that – I think she's quite fond of you."

"Of course I will. I'd love to see her again." He agreed cheerfully. "She really asked for me?"

"Yeah. I think you remind her of Seth."

"Really?" He grinned, genuinely pleased to hear that.

"Yeah." Sara echoed, offering a small shrug. "You always reminded me of him, anyway."

"I did?" He laughed, nudging her playfully in the shoulder. "Is that why you wouldn't date me?"

The boys' bit back a disparaging scoff while Sara just chuckled, shooting the impish tech a coy smile.

"Sure, if that makes you feel better."


	44. September 20th 2004

**September 20****th****, 2004 - -Sara Sidle's new home**

"Holy Mother of God!" Nick wheezed, shifting the box onto his hip for a moment to regain his balance. "How many freaking books does one person need?"

"Buck up, sunshine." Warrick mocked, sailing past him easily with his own weight tucked under one arm. The Texan scoffed, snapping his back straight and trailing slowly behind his mate.

"Yeah, you went for the throw pillows didn't you?"

"Thanks guys," Sara, busy reading the washing machine instructions over Catherine's shoulder, gestured absently towards the unfurnished living room. "Just put them anywhere."

"Duly noted." Dylan groaned, as he and Seth stumbled in behind the CSIs and haphazardly landed the couch in the middle of the room. "What do you think sis, here looks good?"

Sara smirked, attempting to swat her big brother with a kitchen towel and barely missing as he dodged out of her reach.

"Nice try. I thought you said you were strong?"

"I am strong." He puffed his chest out to emphasise his point. "It's not my fault your furniture's laced with lead!"

"Make way people, important item coming through!" Greg interrupted the sibling jiving, shuffling into the room with a cat transport case delicately balanced in his hands. Catherine stepped away from the kitchen bench with a frown and peered through the wire bars.

"Oh don't tell me ..." She rolled her eyes, straightening up and levelling Sara an incredulous look. "You brought him with you?"

"Of course." The brunette blinked at her surprise. "I couldn't leave him behind."

The amassed group moved curiously onto the patio, as Greg set the box down and he and Sara crouched down to release the captive.

It was barely a few seconds before Frankie's little nose ventured out, followed by the rest of him. He sniffed the ground, surveying his new surroundings cautiously for a moment through beady black eyes, before eagerly bounding off towards the nearest tree.

"I think he likes it here." Seth chuckled, continually amused by his sister's unconventional pet.

Catherine felt hot breath against her neck and jumped at Grissom's perplexed voice hissing in her ear.

"That's a squirrel?" He queried, one eyebrow quirked in bemusement.

"Yes." She sighed. "Yes, Gil, it is."

"Okay. Just checking." He frowned, leaning out of her personal space again and ambling back inside to finish exploring the little one-story house.

"So, how'd you convince her to move?" Nick sidled into the boss' vacated spot beside her. "I thought she was set for staying in her flat."

"I have my ways." Catherine flashed him a sultry grin. "And she knew I was right; she was just too stubborn to admit it."

He laughed, his trained eyes following the dark-haired woman as she and Warrick crouched at the bottom of the tree, trying to coax Frankie down from his high perch with a pack of dried fruit. She already looked effortlessly relaxed in her new home, even if it was still an empty shell at the moment.  
>Turning back to the open-plan kitchen-cum-lounge, he placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the mess of boxes and half-built furniture.<p>

"Well, looks like you've got some unpacking to do tonight." He teased.

"Oh, I don't think so." Catherine winked pointedly at the young man. "This can wait. I've got a date tonight."

* * *

><p><strong>September 20<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas CSI, Gil Grissom's Office **

"Hmm?"

Grissom's impatience at being interrupted was audible in his half-hearted greeting, but Warrick wandered inside anyway; unfazed by the sheer lack of warmth he was met with.

"What, don't tell me you're thinking off getting one too?" He chuckled, nodding to the book still poised in Grissom's hands.

"No." The entomologist sat upright and placed his light reading material on the desk – open to a page about the eating habits of Nevada-native squirrels. "I was just curious."

Warrick sank into the seat opposite his boss and stretched his long legs under the desk.

"It's a nice place Sara's got, huh?" He asked rhetorically. "I think she'll be okay there."

"Yeah." Grissom agreed. "Well, it couldn't get much worse than her last abode."

Warrick laughed, drawing to mind the hours spent poring over CCTV recordings of her neighbours and their illicit exploits.

"So," he drawled, scratching his jaw idly. "Her and Cath seem to be getting on well, don't they?"

Grissom's eyes slowly lifted to his companion's and his thin lips twitched to a knowing smile.

"Yes, they do." He agreed cautiously. "Was there something you wanted?"

"No." Warrick held up his hands, getting the hint and making to leave. "I just wanted to say, you know, that ... well, they're happy. And that's all that matters, right?"

He didn't stick around to hear Gil's answer, sensing that his presence was not most welcome right now. The Night Shift supervisor had been tetchy ever since Catherine's startling revelation during the trial and his mood didn't appear set to change anytime soon, despite Warrick's transparent efforts to make him see reason.

However, once he had left, Grissom sat back in his chair and chewed on the arm of his glasses pensively. In the dimness of his office, he often felt safe to voice the thoughts that he would never share in broad daylight. In here, it was as if the most private of musings could be spoken aloud and still somehow remain shrouded in shadow; protected from the scrutiny of others.

"Yeah." He exhaled quietly after a long few minutes. "That's all that matters."

* * *

><p><strong>September 20<strong>**th****, 2004 - - The Bellagio Restaurant**

Their laughed died down and they pursed their lips until the waiter disappeared with their empty plates.

"You're staring, Miss Willows." Sara noted mischievously once he'd vacated her peripheral vision.

"And?" Catherine pressed with a bright smile. "I enjoy staring at you. There was a while back there that I thought I wasn't going to get this opportunity anymore."

"Yeah, well, that's in the past now." Sara put her drink down and for a moment Catherine thought she'd spoken out of line. They rarely discussed Sara's ordeal, although the effects were still plain to see on her body and in her expression.

However, the sudden darkness in Sara's eyes quickly lifted and with it she rose her wineglass in a toast.

"To our first date."

"First?" Cath questioned, clinking their glasses together and taking a sip. "What about..."

"Well." Sara laughed softly and, despite the mood lighting, the faint blush on her cheeks was undeniable. "The first time wasn't exactly romantic. I've been wanting to make up for that for a while."

Cath's features softened and she reached across the table to brush Sara's knuckles with her fingertips.

"You don't have anything to make up for."

"No, except ignoring you and treating you like an object and ..."

"Sara." Catherine cut her off with a soft laugh and a gentle squeeze of the hand. "It's okay, honey. You've had a difficult few months. But maybe we can make a fresh start now – starting tonight?"

"Uh hum." The waiter's ill-timed cough drew both gazes reluctantly upwards and he shot them an apologetic look. "Would you like the dessert menu?"

Catherine turned her attention back to her date. In the playful flicker of the candlelight, Sara's eyes glittered gold and there was a mischievous tint to her bashful grin – a wordless answer to her previous question.

"No." The strawberry-blonde answered without affording him another glance. "We'd like the cheque, please. And a bottle of champagne ... to go."


	45. September 30th 2004

**Last chapter guys :) Hope you've all enjoyed it. I am making plans for my next story, but it might be a few weeks before I get it up. **

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! **

* * *

><p><strong>September 30<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Crime Lab, Layout Room**

"So how's Frankie settling into his new home?"

The question, while not an unwelcome interruption to the contented silence they had fallen into, startled Sara out of her concentration and she lifted her head sharply.

"Huh?"

"Frankie." Greg repeated. "How does he like his new home?"

"Oh, he loves it." She grinned. "This morning I got home to find him sunbathing on one of the deck chairs."

"That's fantastic!" Greg laughed brightly. "I can't wait to come round and see him again."

"Anytime." She assured him easily, resuming her work.

A year ago, she had guarded her home like a castle – even if she barely entered it herself. Now, to even her own surprise, she found that she actually enjoyed her friends' company outside of work.

With the exception of the boys' ill-timed interruption to a rather intimate moment with Catherine two days ago - that had not been such a welcome visit.

"So," Greg cleared his throat again, determined not to slip back into wordless work-mode just yet. He was eternally grateful to Grissom for allowing Sara to be his trainer in the field, rather than one of the boys; but he was astounded by her ability to work for immense amounts of time in absolute silence. It was both impressive and a little bit spooky at the same time. "You know you said that I always reminded you of Seth?"

"Uh huh."

"Now that he's back in your life, does that mean I'm going to get usurped?"

He was joking, clearly, but there was a tiny flicker of naïve fear dancing in his chocolate eyes.

"Of course not." She laughed, nudging him playfully in the ribs. "I couldn't replace you."

"Good." He dared to wrap his arms loosely around her waist from behind and breathed an internal sigh of relief when she didn't pull away. In fact, she leant into the embrace and tipped her head back against his shoulder.

"For a start," a cheeky smile played across her face as she stared up at him. "You know more of my secrets than Seth does."

* * *

><p><strong>September 30<strong>**th****, 2004 - - Las Vegas Police Department, Jim Brass' Office**

"Yeah, I know ... just keep me informed, okay? ... Yeah, thanks."

He dropped the phone unceremoniously into its cradle and let his head fall heavily against the soft leather back of his chair.

"Long shift?" A kindly voice enquired with quiet amusement. Jim lifted his head again and a weary smile drifted across his face.

"You could say that." While he answered, he had autonomously delved into his top drawer and extracted a familiar bottle with two tumblers. Catherine's lips spread into a wide grin at the mute invitation and she earnestly took a seat opposite the detective's large desk.

"That was the DA." Jim explained, handing her a drink. "Angelo's appealing his sentence."

"I guess his moment of goodwill is over." Cath rolled her eyes. To be honest, she had seen this coming – his confession had been a spur-of-the-moment reaction to watching Laura break down on the stand, but deep down he was still the same selfish coward who had let her take the fall for him twenty years ago.

"Well, the DA doesn't think he'll get his way this time," Brass continued. "But his lawyers will put up a fair fight."

"So, let him fight." Catherine shrugged. "He admitted to killing Max in cold blood. He's lucky he got extradited to California for sentencing – in Nevada he'd have been looking at the death penalty."

"Yeah, well that might not have been a bad thing."

Between the stress of losing Sara and the subsequent trials, Jim Brass appeared to have aged a decade in the last few months; but there still remained the mischievous twinkle of a much younger man in his blues eyes when he turned them towards Catherine again.

"So, has Gil forgiven you for stealing his girl yet?"

The strawberry-blonde laughed, long curls bouncing weightlessly off her shoulders.

"He's still a bit wary of me – I think we're both trying very hard not to step on each other's toes right now. But he's coming around." She pulled an amused face, which Brass mirrored. "Slowly."

"Well, he never was a man to do things in a rush."

"He can take all the time he needs; but he'll have to get used to it eventually, because we're in this for the long haul."

"Good." Jim chuckled, re-positioning himself until he was comfortably sunk into his seat. "So Catherine, how _are_ things with you and Sara?"

A knowing smile spread across her lips.

"How long have you been waiting to ask me that?"

His bashful laugh conceded her point, but he continued to stare at her, expectantly awaiting an answer.

"Things are good." She relented. "She's still tender, of course, but she's healing. It's going to take some time before she's really ready to move on; but at least she's agreed to see a counsellor now. That's something."

"Yeah." He agreed, taking a long sip. "And what about Lindsey? How's she handling this – you and Sara being together?"

"It was a bit confusing for her at first, but she's coming to terms with it." Cath answered candidly. "Besides, she likes Sara. And Sara actually seems to have a talent for getting her to open up!"

"Huh, how about that." Jim laughed. "You know, I gotta admit, I didn't see it coming – the two of you."

"And you call yourself a detective?" She teased.

"Hey now, you can't tell me you weren't a bit surprised by it all?"

"No." She smiled wistfully. "I wasn't."

He sent her a curious look, probing for more.

"So, it's always been there?" He pressed. "You having feelings for her, I mean?"

"No." She shot the cop a coy smile. "Not always. But long enough."

He quirked an eyebrow, further intrigued by her cryptic response; but she remained tight-lipped as she sipped her whisky contentedly.

She couldn't say exactly how long she had had feelings for Sara. But she could pinpoint the exact moment she realised it herself.

Looking back now, she couldn't help but spot the irony. She had only identified her attraction to Sara during a personal crisis and as such she had rejected the feelings out of guilt. Had she embraced them at the time, she might have seen what was going on in Sara's life and prevented the tragic drama that unfolded.

But then Max's killer would still be a free man, while Laura continued to torture herself over a crime she had not been responsible for. So perhaps, in a strange twist of fate, Catherine's personal tragedy had ultimately begot a second chance for both herself and Sara.

* * *

><p><strong>February 13<strong>**th****, 2003 - - Las Vegas Police Station, Hallway**

Hot, white spots flashed in front of her eyes, her skin becoming cold and clammy. She couldn't breathe.

Clutching the phone to her chest, she turned back to stare through the little window.

Eddie was dead. Lindsey could have died, too. Tonight, she could have lost the only people that had ever meant anything to her.

Lindsey was still talking to Sara and Detective Vega, oblivious to the news she was soon to receive. It was going to devastate the child. Eddie was a terrible father, but he was Lindsey's father nonetheless and she adored him. She needed him.

And yet it wasn't Lindsey that Catherine was staring at.

Sara had her back to the window, her attention entirely fixed on the little girl. It was a well-known fact that Sara didn't like children, but right now she looked like pro as she gently comforted the miniature witness. It was mesmerising.

Lindsey turned, catching Catherine's gaze through the soundproof glass. Her wide blue orbs seemed to penetrate straight through her mask, seeing the raw pain on her mother's face and recognising it immediately for what it was.

Sara followed her line of sight to the window – to Catherine – and in the split second that their eyes met, the older woman realised something.

It was the worst possible timing for such a revelation. It was inappropriate to even be thinking it. It was just plain wrong.

And it had been right there in front of her all this time.


End file.
